


Never a Hardship

by Julibean19



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Stiles Stilinski, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Attempted Kidnapping, Attempted Sexual Assault, Beards (Relationships), Bodyguard Stiles Stilinski, Dubious Consent, First Son Derek Hale, First Time, Forced Heat, Gender politics, Gun Violence, Knotting, M/M, Mates, Mating Bites, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Meddling, Military Backstory, Mpreg, Omega Derek Hale, POV Derek Hale, Politics, President Talia Hale, Sexism, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-11 03:10:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12926064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Julibean19/pseuds/Julibean19
Summary: “Derek, meet Stiles, your new bodyguard,” Talia says.Derek doesn’t get up.  He’s frozen to his seat on the couch, staring at the man who will now be hounding his every step.  “What’s a Stiles?” he asks dumbly, finally budging when his mother smacks him on the shoulder.“That’s Chief Stiles to you,” his mother says, scolding him.  Derek huffs in annoyance, wondering how this could possibly get worse.  “Senior Chief Stilinski is a Navy SEAL, Special Operations Forces, and has been handpicked by me, out of several hundred options.  You will treat him with respect and do what he says.”“I’m a grown man, Madam President,” Derek says through clenched teeth.  “You can’t expect me to listen to this guy.  I don’t know anything about him."





	Never a Hardship

**Author's Note:**

  * For [addict_writer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/addict_writer/gifts).



> Happy Holidays and/or Seasons Greetings to my Secret Santa, addict_writer aka addicted-to-otp-fandoms! I went through your bookmarks and combined a few of the tropes you seemed to favor. I hope you enjoy it!!! Thanks so much for reading!

Derek is used to this.  Being called into the Oval Office is no longer the thrill it once was.  

His mother is nearing the end of her second term as President of the United States and Derek can’t wait for it to finally be over.  He’s just about to turn 25 and continuing work on his Master's degree in Omega History, focusing on Omegas’ hidden contribution to the World War I effort.  He’s not sure what he plans on doing with his degree, but knows his research is important.  

Derek has never been interested in getting into politics, not the way Laura is.  She finished law school at the top of her class and is well on her way to establishing residency in Arizona and beginning a senatorial campaign.  As the firstborn Alpha, Derek is unsurprised that she will be following in their mother’s footsteps.  

Derek however, remains at home, in the White House, followed to class by a team of plainclothes Secret Service agents with earpieces and backpacks full of weapons and first aid supplies.  His situation isn’t exactly conducive to making friends, or finding a mate.  There is always a qualified and thoroughly background-checked Alpha heat therapist on standby for him, but Derek prefers to go through his heats alone.  

He nods politely to his mother’s assistant, Mr. Finstock, and seats himself on one of the cream-colored sofas in the Oval.  It’s been seven years, and by now Derek is no longer surprised that his mother is running at least 40 minutes behind schedule at any given time.  On a bad day, the delay can be three hours or more.  Luckily, Derek brought a book and spends the next half hour getting some reading done.  

Finally, he hears his mother’s voice down the portico and looks up when the outside door opens.  She dismisses her chief of staff and other aides before smiling broadly at him.  “Hello, darling,” she coos, folding him up in a hug as soon as he’s out of his seat.  “Don’t you look nice this morning.”  

He looks exactly the same as usual, a sweater and grey slacks, but he smiles anyway.  “Thanks, Mom,” Derek replies, pushing his glasses up his nose a bit.  “What’s up?”

“Well, Derek,” she begins, and Derek knows he’s in trouble.  She almost never uses his name, much more likely to spout terms of endearment.  He gets it, he’s her only Omega child, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t rankle him on occasion.  “It seems we have a situation.”

“Don’t we always?” he asks, mildly amused.  A “situation” can be anything from the threat of nuclear war to Cora arguing with her over ball gown choices for the Correspondents’ Dinner.

“This time it’s serious,” she says, sitting down across from him on the opposite couch.  “We’ve been getting threats toward you.”

“What else is new?” Derek says, mildly unconcerned.  He’s been receiving death threats since he was eleven and his mother started campaigning for Congress.  It’s nothing new, and nothing he’s ever taken very seriously.  He’s surrounded by security at all times and no one has ever touched him.  The most he’s had to deal with is the loss of freedom that comes with being the first son and a bit of hounding from the press whenever his mother takes a stand on Omega rights.  They always want to know his opinion, and he’s always been happy to show his support.

This time, his mother actually looks worried and it gives him pause.  She has her hands folded in her lap and looks a little cagey.  Typically the master of any room she enters, Talia Hale looks frightened.  

“What is it?” Derek asks, ready to be put out of his misery.  He’s already imagining a problem with Laura’s campaign, or Cora being in danger somehow, even though she should be in AP Calculus right now.

“You know we’ve been getting threats from Traditionalist groups for some time now,” she begins.  

Derek nods.  Again, it’s nothing new.  He’s an Omega whose mother frequently legislates against Traditionalist ideals.  This is nothing he hasn’t heard before.  

“Well now that you’re about to reach your age of maturity, those groups have a problem with an unbonded Omega in the first family.”

Derek immediately scoffs and rolls his eyes.  “Age of maturity is a completely arcane concept,” he says flatly.  He knows his mother knows this, and doesn’t know why it needs to be said.  Even so, it’s an impulse for him to stand up for himself and other Omegas, no matter who he’s speaking to.  “I don’t know why we’re having this conversation.”

“We’re having this conversation because these groups have come together en masse to forcibly mate you!” Talia practically growls, a choked gasp coming out of her mouth just afterward.  “They’re picketing at the gate, they’re putting a price on you, they’re plotting a massive stream of attempts on not just your life, but on your body!”  

“Isaac hasn’t had any trouble keeping me safe for the last decade,” Derek points out, getting up from the couch to comfort his mother.  He wraps his arms around her, astonished when she clings to him and presses her face into his throat.  Derek knows she’s grounding herself, scenting him, rubbing her protection onto him, and he can’t bring himself to be upset with her, even though he’s asked her not to do this a thousand times in the past.  “Everything is going to be fine.  This is just another threat.  We’ll take care of it.  You have the Secret Service and even the whole military if you want it.  I’ll be fine.”

“I know you’re going to be fine,” his mother says, discreetly wiping the wetness from under her eyes, “because I got you a new personal bodyguard.”

“Mom!” Derek groans, rolling his eyes again.  “Isaac is fine.  He has a whole team!  They follow me into the bathroom.  How much more security do I need?”  

The door to the Oval opens then, and Finstock gives his mother a look.

“Send him in, please,” she says, standing up and smoothing out the wrinkles in her skirt.  “You’re going to be fine because your new body man is Agent Stilinski.  Come say hello.”  Talia strides over to the door purposefully, the mask of the President back on her face.  

“Madam President, it’s a pleasure to see you again,” a voice says from the doorway.  

When the owner of the voice steps inside, Derek’s eyebrows creep toward his hairline.  Not only is the man young, but he’s skinny, shrimpy even.  He looks like he’s been playing dress up in his father’s suit.  

“Thank you for agreeing to this, Agent Stilinski,” his mother says, kissing the young man on the cheek.  “I’m sure you’d much rather be catching up with your father now that you’re home.”

“I serve at the pleasure of the President,” he says immediately, dazzling Talia with a smile.  

Derek practically chokes on his own spit.  

“It’s an honor and a privilege, Madam President.”

“You’re too kind, Agent Stilinski,” Talia says, gesturing for the man to follow her into the room and meet her son.  

“Please, call me Stiles,” he says, smiling again.  His mouth is wide, and when Derek catches a glimpse of his teeth, they’re a sparkling white.  If he had to choose a word, he’d call the smile devilish.  

“If you insist,” Talia says, turning toward Derek.  “Derek, meet Stiles, your new bodyguard.”

Derek doesn’t get up.  He’s frozen to his seat on the couch, staring at the man who will now be hounding his every step.  “What’s a Stiles?” he asks dumbly, finally budging when his mother smacks him on the shoulder.  

“That’s Chief Stiles to you,” his mother says, scolding him.  Derek huffs in annoyance, wondering how this could possibly get worse.  “Senior Chief Stilinski is a Navy SEAL, Special Operations Forces, and has been handpicked by me, out of several hundred options.  You will treat him with respect and do what he says.”

“What are you, 15?” Derek asks, completely baffled by the situation.  How is some scrawny teenager going to protect him from an angry bunch of hormonally-charged Alphas?

“I’m 32, but thanks for asking,” Stiles says, eyes twinkling like he’s looking for a fight.  

Derek doesn’t want a fight, but if he did, he’s pretty sure he could take this guy.  He’s big for an Omega and likes to spend a lot of time in the White House fitness center.  Derek’s pretty sure he could bench press Senior Chief Stilinski without breaking a sweat.

“What did I just say?” his mother hisses while still managing to smile at Stiles.  

“I’m a grown man, _Madam President_ ,” Derek says through clenched teeth.  “You can’t expect me to listen to this guy.  I don’t know anything about him.   _You_ don’t know anything about him.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Derek,” Talia says, placing a soft hand on Stiles’ shoulder.  “I’ve known Stiles since he was a child.  His father was the Sheriff of Beacon County back when I ran for Governor in California.  We met at a charity function and he helped me tidy up my gun control stance.”

Derek hangs his head and massages his temples.  He knows his mother has dug her feet in and will not be moved, not if she knows the Stilinski family personally.  She campaigned on being the people’s president, and never, ever forgets a face or a name.  Once upon a time, it was a trait Derek admired,  right now it’s just infuriating.  “I don’t see why Isaac can’t do it.  I don’t know this guy, and I don’t trust him.”

“You don’t have to trust him,” his mother says sharply, giving no room for argument.  “I trust him.  You just have to tolerate him.  If I hear one word about you slipping your detail, I’ll have you locked in your bedroom.”

“I won’t slip my detail, Mom,” Derek says softly, knowing how much the thought terrifies her.  “I’m not Cora, and I’m not 18 anymore.  I can handle one more year of this if you can.”

“That’s all I ask, darling,” Talia says, again reverting to the pet names.  “One more year, and you’ll be free to do whatever you want.  And once the threat is passed, I’ll let Isaac take over your detail again.”

“Thanks, Mom,” he says, knowing it’s what she wants to hear.  It’s always a good idea to remind President Hale that she is a mother, first and foremost.  After 25 years, Derek knows how to pull at her heartstrings when necessary.  It’s for the greater good, after all.  The less she worries about him, the more she’ll be able to focus on the stuff that really matters.  Derek has no illusions about that.  The country comes first.

“Fabulous,” she says, clapping her hands together as if that ends the conversation.  The gesture is not lost on Derek, who has been seeing it for the entirety of his mother’s public life.  “Now, there’s just one more thing before I leave you to your studies.”

“Anything,” Derek says, ready to shoulder his familial duty once more.  

“I’ve set you up on a few dates.  Nothing serious, just a few Alphas that I think you might like.”

“Mom!” Derek groans, narrowing his eyes when he sees Stiles smirk slightly before schooling his expression.  

“It’s good for the Traditionalists to see you’re thinking about settling down, and these Alphas, well they’re beyond reproach.  It will help with the optics of the situation.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Derek mutters, hanging his head again.  “Isn’t that just going to look like we’re giving in to their ideals?  I don’t need an Alpha, and I definitely don’t need a traditional one.  You campaigned for Omega rights, and now you’re ready to marry me off?”

“I don’t care what it looks like if it keeps you safe, Derek,” she snaps, and Derek knows he’s already lost.  “You don’t have to mate them, you just have to have dinner or play a game of tennis—”

“—I don’t play tennis,” Derek interjects, but his mother talks over him.  

“Take a stroll around the National Mall and talk history, I don’t care, as long as the press can report on it.  Have I made myself clear?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Derek sighs.

“Good,” his mother says, picking up his book and holding it out to him.  “Now go finish your reading, and be ready for dinner at 6 sharp.”

Derek sets his face, takes the book, and brushes a perfunctory kiss to his mother’s cheek before storming out of the Oval, Agent Stilinski hot on his trail.

* * *

Hours later, Derek is stepping out of the shower and perusing his closet.  Agent Stilinski stands outside the door.  If this were any other date night, Isaac would be lying across his bed, helping him choose an outfit, eyes scanning the room every thirty seconds, but otherwise engaged in playful banter.

Derek isn’t comfortable letting Agent Stilinski in his bedroom alone, and definitely not when he’s unclothed.  After spending a few hours reading and then a frantic thirty minutes banging out a few pages of his thesis while the reading was still fresh, Agent Stilinski—Derek refuses to call him Stiles—takes a quick sweep of his suite.  He familiarizes himself with the layout, all entry and exit points, including the air vents, checks in the shower, the closet, and under the bed, and then steps outside.

As far as Derek can tell, Agent Stilinski is thorough and professional, apart from his face.  Whenever Derek speaks to someone, or himself for that matter, the man can’t keep his face from giving a running commentary.  It passes from amused to skeptical to thoroughly unimpressed rapidly throughout the day.  Derek can’t stop looking at him, which means he gets far less work done today than he meant to.  Something about Agent Stilinski irks him.  He’s pretty sure it’s the fit of the man’s suit.

In stark contrast, Derek’s suit fits perfectly.  He trims his beard, moisturizes his face—something Erica taught him in their teens—and chooses a light pink tie to go with his charcoal three-piece suit.  If his mother wants him to show himself off for a traditional Alpha, he might as well try to play the part.  He’s just sitting on the edge of his bed tying his shoes when there’s a light knock at the door.  

“Mr. Hale?” Agent Stilinski calls, waiting for an answer before slipping inside the room.  “It’s six o’clock, and your mother asked that you not be late this evening.”

“I’m ready,” he says, smoothing down the front of his vest jacket before buttoning it.  “How do I look?” he asks before he can manage to stop himself.  This isn’t Isaac.  He needs to remember that.

“I’m not sure pink is your color, Sir,” Stilinski says, a smirk playing at his lips.  

“It’s not,” Derek agrees with a sigh before heading for the door.  

“I’m sure your date will appreciate it though,” Stilinski says, closing the door behind him.  He speaks into his comm link for a few moments—so quietly Derek can’t begin to imagine what was said—and sweeps his arm out, gesturing for Derek to lead the way.  

“I’m not sure I want them to appreciate anything,” Derek mutters, heading for the dining room.  “Least of all my appearance.”

“I don’t think anyone could complain about the way you look,” Stilinski says, plain and simple with barely any inflection.

Derek narrows his eyes and adjusts his glasses.  It’s not the first time he’s been called handsome.  He takes pride in his body and does his best to dress nicely, but his physique is not what most Alphas find attractive.  “I doubt whatever Traditionalist Alpha my mother picked out will be satisfied with someone like me.”

“Their loss then,” Stilinski says, opening the door for him and following him inside.  

Again, there is no emotion in Agent Stilinski’s voice and Derek finds himself confused by his words.  He’s not given much time to analyze them though, because an older man stands at the opposite end of the dining room, eyeing him inquisitively.

Derek doesn’t appreciate the once-over he’s getting.  The man’s opinion of him is unreadable, but he gets a traditional courtship greeting anyway, a kiss on each cheek followed by a hand to the chest, over the heart.  Derek bristles under the touch, but doesn’t shake it off.  He promised his mother he’d keep up appearances.  

“Deucalion Harris,” he says, offering his hand in a more casual greeting.

“Derek Hale.”

“Matching names.  You could keep your monograms,” Deucalion says slyly while Derek takes a seat.  

He’s eager to put an entire dining room table between them, but the place settings are set up at one corner.  His mother’s doing, he’s sure.  Derek remembers he should be reacting to the man and huffs out an awkward laugh.  He fights the urge to peek up at Agent Stilinski’s face.  He knows what look he would find there.

“What do you do, Mr. Harris?” Derek asks, laying his napkin in his lap and eyeing his empty wine glass.  He longs to snap his fingers for the steward, but would never be so rude.

“Please, call me Duke,” the man says, and though his English accent is undeniably proper, it makes Derek’s skin crawl.  He says a small thank you to whoever said all visitors to the White House had to wear scent and hormone-blocking patches.  The only thing that could make this evening worse would be Deucalion Harris’ horny stink all over the place.

“Fine, Duke,” Derek says, taking no pleasure in the familiarity.  “What do you do?”

“My father is the Earl of Albemarle,” he begins, and then goes off on a ten-minute explanation of their landholdings and castle staff.  

Eventually, the wine is poured and Derek can zone out.  He focuses on the food on his plate and taking small, even bites between his sips so he doesn’t chug the whole glass immediately.  He takes his time, thanking the steward through serious eye contact every time his glass is refilled.  The man can obviously see his desperation and pours extra heavily the third time around.  

All the while, Deucalion keeps chatting about his time at Cambridge and how far their standards have fallen in recent years.  Not once does he ask Derek about himself.  Derek counts his blessings.  He’d rather not expend any extra effort on keeping a conversation going with this man, who is possibly old enough to be his father.   

“Don’t you agree?”  Duke asks, snapping Derek out of his daydreaming.  

“About what?” Derek manages to ask, a smile plastered across his face.

“That the English countryside would be the best place to raise children.  You wouldn’t need to work, of course, but we’d still hire a nanny and send the Alphas off to boarding school, Eton, like me.  The Omegas could stay home with you, learning Omega things from the household staff.”

“Omega things?” Derek asks, dumbfounded.  “What kind of Omega things?”

“Oh you know, etiquette and finishing, along with how to hone their wiles.  How else could you expect them to mate highly?” Duke asks rhetorically.  “It’s not as if you’ll be able to teach them anything of the sort, what with your fantastical ideas about higher education.”

Derek opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.  He’s so angry he thinks about spitting in the man’s face, but knows his mother would get the blame for it.  He tries to think of a witty comeback, but his mind goes absolutely blank the second Deucalion’s hand comes to rest on his forearm.  

“We all know you have no interest in traditional gender roles, but we can fix that,” he simpers, trailing his hand all the way up Derek’s bicep toward his throat.  “Once I get this patch off, I’ll have you begging for my knot, and you’ll be pregnant with our first litter before the year is out.”  His palm finally comes in contact with the clear patch on Derek’s throat, and all hell breaks loose.  

Derek’s eyes barely register what is happening.  

Before he can protest, Agent Stilinski has broken Deucalion’s arm and his nose, muttered, “Eyebrows with me, back to the Cove,” while bundling him up and pulling him out the door.  He barely glances behind him before saying, “Someone take the trash out in the dining room, please.”

“What’s going on?  Did you just call me Eyebrows?” Derek protests, nearly tripping over his own feet as Agent Stilinski herds him back into his suite.

Isaac is waiting by the door.  Derek is relieved to see him, but more than a little concerned when his friend immediately puts hands on him and pats him down, searching for injuries.  

“Are you hurt?” he asks, checking both sides of his head and running his hand through Derek’s hair, checking his hand for blood.

“I’m fine!” Derek protests as they push him into his room and down on the edge of the bed.  Stilinski locks the door and stands with his back to it, hand on his weapon.

“Permission to touch your neck, Sir?” Isaac asks, and now Derek is really worried.  Isaac hasn’t called him that in nearly a decade.

“Y-yes,” Derek stutters, mind reeling with the implication that something might actually be wrong with him.  

Isaac’s fingers are cool on his neck.  He checks Derek’s pulse and the temperature of his forehead before carefully pressing down every edge of his patch, making sure it is flush with his skin.  “Vitals stable, hormone patch clear,” Isaac says into his comm link before letting out a heavy breath.  

“Will someone explain to me what’s going on?” Derek asks again, standing up to his full height and doing his best to look like he’s in charge.  

“You were assaulted by an Alpha,” Stilinski begins, tone all business.  “Protocol says we are to neutralize the threat, get you back to your suite and put two agents on you immediately before checking for injury or vulnerability.”

“Vulnerability?” Derek asks, unfamiliar with the term.  

“If your hormone patch had been tampered with, you may have been thrown into an early heat or made to act erratically depending on the other hormones at play.  It’s our job to make sure your sensibilities haven’t been compromised.  Do you need us to be relieved by Omega agents, Mr. Hale?”

“What?  I’m fine.  You still have your patches on.  Everything is fine,” Derek stutters, mind turning over Stilinski’s words.

“I’m going to need a verbal yes or no answer, Mr. Hale.  Do you need an Omega agent or the Omega doctor?  Yes or no?”

“No,” Derek says as clearly as possible.  “I’m fine.”

“Eyebrows secure,” Isaac says to his comlink and then unlocks the door.  Stilinski’s eyes are still roving over his body, but Derek knows there’s nothing to see.  Apart from a slightly rumpled suit and head of hair, there is nothing wrong with him.  If he’s breathing heavily, it’s from having run down the corridor to his room, not any sort of “vulnerability.”

“Why do you keep calling me that?  It’s terrible!” Derek protests, ears finally catching up with his mouth.    

“Because they let me choose your new security code name and I couldn’t get away with Angry Eyebrows,” Isaac says immediately.  

Instantly, the fear of the incident with Deucalion leaves Derek.  He laughs out loud long and hard enough that all three of them are wiping tears from their eyes.  “I can’t believe you broke his nose!” Derek crows, gasping for breath.  “What a douche!”

“I can’t believe he’s still alive,” Isaac replies, laying a companionable arm across his shoulders.  “Why don’t you get changed and we can watch one of those boring documentaries you like so much?”

“Alright,” Derek says, going to pull some sweats out of his dresser.

“I’ll just be outside if you need anything,” Agent Stilinski says, heading for the door.  

“You can stay,” Derek says.  “We might as well get to know each other if you’re going to be around for a while,” he adds, giving Stilinski a small smile.  “Want some sweats, Isaac?” he offers, tossing some pajamas to his friend.  “I’d offer some to Stilinski, too, but I think his suit is loose enough.”

Isaac joins him in laughter, but Stilinski’s face hardens.  “I knock a handsy Alpha out for you in two moves and you’re still focused on how loose my suit is?  I’m not here to look nice, I’m here to protect you,” he says, voice hard.  

Something in Derek snaps to attention, even though Isaac is still laughing.  

“Lahey, get up,” Stilinski says, unbuttoning his jacket.  He unbuttons his cuffs and rolls up his sleeves in efficient little folds.

Derek stares and then looks away, clearing his throat.

Isaac is still chuckling, but gets up anyway.  Stilinski is, after all, his superior now.  

“Come at me,” he says, beckoning at Isaac with one hand.  

“You don’t have to get all Alpha about it,” Derek says, rolling his eyes.  “Stand down, Isaac.”

“No,” Isaac says, eyes lit up.  “I want to see if I can take him.”

Derek just huffs out a sigh before sitting down on the bed, well out of the way.  “Have it your way,” he says, watching with wide eyes as Isaac goes for a knockout punch.  

Stilinski dodges out of the way, dancing around him easily.  Isaac tries again, but it’s no use, he can’t land anything.  Stilinski is lithe and quick, easily stepping out of the way of each of Isaac’s attempts.  

“Put a little effort into it, Lahey,” he taunts, quickly jabbing Isaac in the sternum.  With three more efficient moves, one to the ear, one to the back of the knee, and one to the ribs, Isaac is on the ground, gasping for breath.  Stilinski has one foot on his throat, both hands leveling his weapon between Isaac’s eyes.  

Derek is breathing fast, but he doesn’t know why.  He didn’t even see Stilinski take out his gun, yet there it is, steady in his strong grip.  

Isaac holds his hands up, and Stilinski removes his foot, holstering his weapon.  He helps Isaac off the ground and dusts him off, patting him on the cheek with one hand.  “Good try with that sideswipe, but you’re telegraphing your moves.  You need to go for the unexpected next time.  And you’re going to start jogging with me in the mornings, you’ve clearly been neglecting your cardio,” he says, smiling at Isaac, who gives him the finger.  

He turns to Derek and takes a step forward.  

Derek’s breath catches in his throat.  

“I wear my clothes loose so I can move more freely,” Stilinski says, pulling down on the cuffs of his shirt.  “It’s the difference between a solid hit and a glancing blow, and I’m not willing to take that chance with you.  If you don’t like it, take it up with your mother.”

“I’m sorry,” Derek says, not knowing what else to say.  

“I’ll leave you to your movie,” Stilinski says, exiting the room and closing the door behind him.  

Derek stares at it for a full minute before Isaac flops on the bed next to him.  

“That guy is such a douche,” he says, rubbing at his chest with one hand where Derek assumes a bruise is forming.  

“Totally,” Derek agrees, still staring at the closed door.

* * *

Derek does his best to smile and let his mother parade him around with a revolving door of high-class Alphas, but after the fifth time, he begs for a break.  

Walter is as boring as the day is long and Derek is struggling to keep his eyes open as they sit on a bench at the National Gallery.  He’s nodding off and he knows it, but Walter is ten minutes into a comparison between Jean Honoré Fragonard’s hedonistic portraits and the other artists of the Ancien Régime and Derek mentally checked out two minutes in.

Walter has opened his mouth again, taking a deep breath, and Derek knows it’s going to be the start of another ten-minute rant about the French Revolution so he cuts in with, “I’m sorry Walter.” He stands up and takes a step backward.  “I need to use the restroom.”

Walter peers up at him, eyes narrow and says, “I wish you’d call me Alpha.  It’s inappropriate to use an Alpha’s name in public like that.  I don’t expect you to use my given name until we’re mated, and even then it’s reserved for in the home.  You wouldn’t want to make me look like I can’t handle my Omega, would you?”

Derek just barely stops himself from rolling his eyes.  He forces a bland smile onto his face and nods once, stepping away and down the hall.  

“I just need a minute,” he says quietly once he hears a second set of shoes fall into step behind him.

“I appreciate that, and I don’t want to invade your privacy, but I can’t let you in there without clearing the room first,” Stilinski says into his ear, having caught up to him rather quickly.  

Derek sighs heavily, but allows Stilinski to duck into the bathroom before him.  A harried-looking man exits the restroom a moment later, and Derek avoids his eyes, looking across the gallery to find Isaac who mouths, “You okay?” at him.  Derek nods and does his best to swallow around the lump in his throat.  

He doesn’t need this.  He doesn’t need any of this.  He’s not fragile, and he doesn’t need a band of men following him into the bathroom every time he needs a moment of peace.  If his mother hadn’t insisted on these dates, Derek would be further along with his thesis, not suffering through the relentless drone of another Traditionalist Alpha.  

“It’s all clear, Mr. Hale,” Stilinski says, holding the door to the Omega comfort room open for him.  “Would you like me to wait outside?”

Derek doesn’t know why, but he shakes his head.  Maybe something about Walter’s words make him feel like he doesn’t want to be left alone, or maybe it’s the desire for some sort of reassurance, but either way, he lets Stilinski follow him into the bathroom and lock the door behind him.

“Stilinski has Eyebrows in the OCR, third floor, west wing,” he says into his comm link before taking a wide stance with his back against the door.  

Derek paces the floor, looking up at Stilinski every few moments whenever he passes the man.  The uncertainty that had him swallowing down tears is gone.  Now he’s mad.

“That fucking pompous ass face just told me to call him Alpha!  In public!  Like he’s my fucking master!  Can you believe that?” Derek barks.  Stilinski doesn’t answer until Derek makes three more passes in front of him and says, “I asked you a question, Agent.”

“I’m sorry, are we talking about your personal life now?” Stilinski says, eyebrows raised.  “I was told we wouldn’t be doing that.”

“Just fucking commiserate with me for two seconds.  Or do you agree with him?  Need me to start calling you Alpha now, too?  Want me to get on my knees and show you how good Omegas present for their betters?”

“I never said anything like that, stop putting words in my mouth,” Stilinski says, voice sharp and indignant.

“Well say something, then!”

“I’m trying to be professional, but I want nothing more than to go out there and feed that guy his own nutsack,” Stilinski says, fists clenched together at his sides.  

Derek’s eyebrows rise as he takes in the new stance.  It’s the first time Derek has seen Agent Stilinski in anything short of military rest.  He’s always so controlled, so precise with his movements.  Even when he knocked Isaac out a few weeks ago, Derek didn’t see this kind of tension in his body.  

He doesn’t even try to stop himself.  Derek bursts out into laughter.  Before long, Stilinski is unclenching his arms and joining in.  Like all the fight has left him, Derek collapses onto a floral couch set into the corner of the lounge area.  

“At ease, Agent Stilinski,” Derek says, wiping tears from under his eyes.  “The door is locked.  Nothing is going to happen to me in here.”

“I’ve never been in an Omega lounge before,” Stilinski says, stepping away from the door reluctantly, and not before yanking on the handle to check the lock.  “I didn’t realize you guys needed couches.”

“It’s where we come to gossip about douchey Alphas,” Derek says, deadpan.  “And fix our makeup.”

“Really?” Stilinski asks, confusion coloring his face.  

“No, you idiot,” Derek says, laughing at the man’s expense.  “We do use it to hide if an Alpha gets a little handsy.  And of course, some use it for breastfeeding and child care.  I’ve seen a few napping and waiting for someone to pick them up when their heats catch them off guard.  That sort of thing.”

“I see,” Stilinski says, looking around the room with interest.  He picks up a parenting magazine off the end table and starts flipping through it.

“I take it you’ve never dated an Omega before,” Derek asks, eyeing Stilinski curiously.

“If we’re going to be asking personal questions like that, don’t you think you should start calling me Stiles?”

“Fine, _Stiles_ , have you ever been with an Omega before?” Derek doesn’t know why he’s asking.  It’s a presumptuous question at best, and definitely an invasive one.  If Stiles asked him the same question, he’d probably slap him in the face.  

 “My best friend is an Omega,” Stiles says, shrugging his shoulders.  “I was supposed to spend heats with him when we were in high school, but I just didn’t feel that way about him.  I lent him my clothes and talked to him on the phone, and that was about all I could stomach.  Then I went to the Navy and the SEALs and it’s all Alphas and Betas there.”

“Are you bent then?” Derek asks, wincing internally as the words come out of his mouth.  He’s passed invasive and moved directly on to rude and inappropriate.  

“No, are you?” Stiles asks, putting the magazine back down on the table without meeting Derek’s eye.  

“No.”

They stare at the floor for a little while.  Derek watches how Stiles rubs the smooth soles of his dress shoes against the carpet making little designs when the fibers change direction.

“I’ve never heard of an Alpha refusing an Omega in heat before.  Especially not one they cared about,” Derek says quietly, looking up at Stiles for some sort of explanation.  “There’s nothing wrong with being bent, you know.  I have a feeling my sister might be,” Derek says before quickly adding.  “But don’t tell anyone that.  She’s still young, I don’t want her to be concerned about labels or what the press thinks about her.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” Stiles says, still looking at the carpet.  “I’m not bent.  He was like my brother.  I grew up with him.  His heat didn’t smell right to me.  Plus, he found his mate only a year after.  They have four pups together.  They’re happy.”

“That’s great,” Derek says, trying to catch Stiles’ eye.

Stiles raises his head and smiles softly.  “I’m godfather to all of them.  Missed all their naming ceremonies though, being overseas.”

“I’m sorry,” Derek says.  “That must have been hard.”

“It’s not hard to do your duty, Derek,” Stiles says.  “It’s never been a hardship for me.”

“Don’t you want kids of your own?”

“Maybe someday,” Stiles says, looking down at his fingers, which are twisting together nervously.  “I always wanted siblings, but my Mom got sick and couldn’t have any more.”

“Siblings aren’t all they’re cracked up to be,” Derek mutters bitterly, pulling a small chuckle from Stiles.  

“Do you want pups?” Stiles asks.  

Six months ago, Derek would have said no.  Meeting all of these Traditionalist Alphas should have put him right off the subject, but recently he’s been thinking more and more about what it would be like.  He sees pregnant Omegas on the street and wonders what it would feel like to be full like that, to be wanted and praised and fawned over, to have that life inside him.  

“Maybe some day,” he says eventually, realizing that Stiles has been staring at him, waiting for his answer.  “I’d like to finish my degree first.  Get a job.  Move out of the White House for sure.”

“I’d like to move out of the White House, too,” Stiles says.  

Derek raises his eyebrows and grins.  “Tapping out already, Agent Stilinski?  I never pegged you for a quitter.”

“I’m not a quitter, I just wish these psychos weren’t after you.  I’m sure you have better things to be doing than pretending to tolerate a bunch of assholes.  I know I do.  Speaking of which,” he says, looking over to the door and then down at his watch.  “Don’t you think we’ve left your date waiting long enough?”

Derek sighs heavily but pushes out of his seat anyway.  “How much do you want to bet he’s been talking to me like I’m still there this entire time.”

“I’ll bet you a slice of that chocolate cake I saw in the fridge in the residence.”

“That’s my Dad’s birthday cake.”

“The leftovers have been sitting there for three days, Derek.  In my world, that makes them fair game,” Stiles says with a smirk, unlocking the door of the restroom.  

“You’re on,” Derek says, feeling lighter than he has in days.

* * *

Erica insists on taking Derek out for his birthday.  He doesn’t see why it has to be a club, but that’s where they end up after dinner.  Their group consists of Erica, her mate Boyd, Kira and her mate Lydia, a few of Derek’s classmates, Isaac, Stilinski, and a half dozen other plainclothes agents.  

Derek hates it.  He would have been happy to sit in a booth and catch up with Kira and Lydia over a few beers, but instead he gets dragged onto the dance floor with the entire group.  Isaac and Stiles stand ominously on the outskirts of the crowd, hands clasped behind their backs, continuously scanning the club for trouble.  

Erica is pressed tight against his back, Boyd behind her, while Marty and Andy face him.  Derek tries to bounce to the beat of the deafening music, but really, everything about the situation is intolerable to him.  It must show on his face, because Erica leans in until he can feel her breath on his ear and says, “At least try to have a good time.”

 “I don’t like dancing!” he shouts over the blaring techno.  It’s hot and sweaty and his glasses are already beginning to fog up, forcing him to keep wiping them on the hem of his shirt.

“That’s because you’re not drunk enough yet,” Lydia says, appearing to his right with a tray full of double shot glasses.  He takes one, hoping it will help him loosen up, or at least forget about all of this by morning.  Lydia hands him another, and another, and by the fourth, he’s grimacing and shaking his head.

“One more!” he hears Erica scream from behind him.  

He dutifully downs the fifth shot and swears he can feel the room swaying already.  “I hate tequila!” he shouts back, losing his balance a little as he spins to face Erica.  

“That was vodka,” she corrects, smile wide and predatory.  “You must be drunker than I thought.”

Derek shakes his head, trying to clear it, but it’s no use.  He puts a hand on Boyd’s shoulder to steady himself and gets a slow grind in return.

It’s been five years since Erica and Boyd mated, but they’re still as flirty as ever.  If Erica is to be believed, they bring home thirds often.  Derek is sure he would be welcome in their bed if he ever decided to give in to their advances, but he has no desire to get between them and isn’t sure he would make it out alive if he ever did.  Besides, Derek’s never been with anyone before, and he wants his first time to be with one special person, not two.

Boyd grinds into him again, slotting their hips together, and Derek rolls his eyes.  They’re coming on strong tonight, and he’s almost tempted to take them up on their offer, but knows it isn’t a good idea, even several drinks in.  Despite all this, it still feels good to be close to someone, so Derek lets himself enjoy it.  Erica presses against his back and Boyd pulls her in, sandwiching him tight.  If he closes his eyes, he can lose himself in the heat for a minute and pretend he’s found his own mate.  

He doesn’t want to want it.  Derek wishes he could hold onto his beliefs, that Omegas can be independent, that they don’t need anyone, but sometimes, when he looks around and sees everyone else paired off, he can’t help but fantasize about what it would be like.  He knows what he said to his mother, that the age of maturity is just a social construct, meant to hold capable Omegas down, but even so, today, on his 25th birthday, Derek feels like his internal clock just started ticking.  

He’s embarrassed, but he lets himself rest his head on Boyd’s shoulder and inhale.  It doesn’t smell right at all, Boyd is a Beta when his body craves an Alpha, but it still feels like home.  These few friends, circled around him, are all that he has.  Derek knows he wants more, but he’s determined to finish his degree before he even thinks about going to look for it.  If Laura can keep herself on target to reach her professional goals without fawning over every Omega she sees, Derek can keep his eyes on the prize as well.  

Lydia returns with another tray and he taps out after three this time, still fairly sure it’s tequila he’s drinking.  He’s never liked liquor, though.  He only ever drinks beer when he has a choice, and only then, just a few at a time.  It’s not good to drink alone and he almost never goes out with anyone.  

A few minutes later Isaac appears with a bottle of water and he chugs it hungrily, smiling a dopey smile up at his bodyguard and oldest friend.  “Dance with me, Lahey,” he mutters, pulling Isaac in by the lapels of his blazer.  

“I don’t think so,” Isaac says easily, though his smile betrays his amusement.  “I’m going to leave you here with your friends, but maybe lay off the vodka.  I think you’ve had plenty.”  He pulls away gently.  Derek can’t even smell his Beta scent through the blocking patch that he wears, so he pulls Boyd back in and tries to settle himself as the room spins around him.

If he closes his eyes and concentrates really hard, he can almost picture it.  He’s in bed, not at the White House, but his own apartment.  There’s a skylight overhead and it’s just about dawn.  The sunlight is breaking through the clouds and the entire loft looks like it glows.  There are white sheets on his bed, a big fluffy comforter that is moving slightly.  Derek doesn’t need to turn around to see who is there, he’d know by scent or touch alone, this is his Alpha.  

The man scoots closer, pulling Derek into the curve of his hips, tucking him close to his chest, laying a possessive arm across his waist.  There’s a little bulge there, and the man cups it, soothes his thumb in soft circles around his stomach where their pup is growing.  It’s warm, and sweet, and the whole apartment smells like them.  He could lay here forever, just soaking it into his skin.

Derek takes a deep breath and is immediately pulled out of his fantasy.  The scent isn’t right.  His nose is pressed into Boyd’s throat.  His scent is strong.  Most people go without patches, especially to clubs and on dates, but Boyd’s Beta scent doesn’t do anything for him.  

Derek’s not just warm, he’s sweating.  It’s too hot in the club and Erica’s blonde curls are whipping back and forth, getting caught on his sweat-damp throat.  He tries to pull away, but the crowd is dense enough that there’s nowhere to go.  

A finger touches his chin and he opens his eyes to see Erica directly in front of his face.  She’s turning his head to the left slightly and saying, “What do you think of him?  Is he your type, birthday boy?”

There’s a group of Alphas huddled just outside the writhing mass of bodies on the dance floor, but Derek knows immediately which one she’s talking about.  He’s cute.  Broad without being too big, smaller than Derek, if he’s got the right perception of his own size, auburn hair that looks more red than brown in the flashing strobe lights.  He’s wearing a flannel shirt, sleeves rolled up to show off his massive forearms and jeans so tight they look like they’re painted on.

“Maybe?” Derek has to admit.  It’s not often that he comes out with Erica and sees what kind of Alphas are on offer outside his history classes and trips to the campus library.  If this is what he’s missing, he might have to hit the clubs more often.  

He takes a moment to consider.  The Secret Service swept the club before Derek and his friends arrived and while he knows there’s no press inside, everyone still has their own camera phone.  All it would take is one drunk sorority girl snapping a photo of him grinding with some random Alpha and all his mother’s hard work would go down the drain.  

No one wants a loose Omega running around the District of Columbia, least of all the President of the United States, but right now, Derek is feeling a little vindictive.  He’s been on a string of terrible dates at his mother’s insistence and wants a little payback.  Why shouldn’t he have a little fun while he’s still young?  It’s his birthday after all.

Erica’s eyes are on him, her cherry red lips spreading into a gleeful grin when Derek manages a small nod.  In an instant, Erica has called the Alpha and his friends over.  She pulls at the attractive one and shoves him at Derek while wrangling another pair to dance between her and Boyd.  Even Kira and Lydia are joining in on the fun.  Derek’s eyes scan the crowd before he finally focuses on the man in front of him.

He smells divine.  The man gives him a small, shy smile and holds his hand out.  Derek takes it without hesitation.  He gets pulled in close, careful hands on his waist as the man ducks his head bashfully.  

Derek tilts his head, trying to get a better look at his face.  “What’s your name?” he asks, lifting the man’s chin with one finger.  

His eyes are a bright, sparkling blue, and he bites his lip before saying, “Devon.  And you’re Derek, right?”

Derek nods, licking his lips.  He doesn’t usually do this, but out in public, outside the White House, everyone is free to live their lives without their scent blockers, and Derek finds himself affected.  The Alphas in class are easy to ignore.  He’s always focused on school work, and half of them wear their patches just to keep things professional, but here, things are different.  They’re out at one of the hottest clubs in the capital, somewhere people go specifically to hook up.  It catches him off guard, the sudden overwhelming desire to shove his nose into Devon’s throat and take a deep breath.  He wonders what it would be like if he wasn’t wearing his own patch.  

He almost never takes it off.  It’s a security nightmare, having an Omega in the White House.  Derek is only allowed to remove it in his own room when he’s alone at night.  Even then, he rarely does.  Every once in a while, when it’s late at night and he finds himself in the mood to watch some mating porn, does he take it off.  It’s like foreplay to him, massaging the base of his throat, working himself up until the whole room smells like ripe Omega.  After a while, it becomes impossible to keep his fingers from reaching for his hole and fingering himself to completion.  Sometimes a fantasy and a few fingers on his scent gland are all it takes.

Derek’s never had sex before.  It’s strange for Omegas to not take heat partners, trusted friends or even certified heat therapists.  But for Derek, that had never been an option.  His mother has been in public office since he was young, and while his parents offered to find him a professional, the risk had always been too high.  Derek wouldn’t have been able to trust someone to not take advantage of him for the sake of ruining his mother’s reputation.  

After a dozen years or so of spending his heats alone, Derek thinks he barely misses it.  How can you miss something you’ve never had?  But now, feeling Devon’s fingers on his waist, sneaking up under the hem of his shirt, he’s starting to wonder if he’s been wrong all these years.

The music changes to something slow, and Devon pulls him in even closer, resting his head on Derek’s shoulder.  “Don’t touch my throat,” he warns, even as his eyelids flutter closed at the sensation of Devon’s breath on his neck.  “Not unless you want ten Secret Service agents on you.”

“Definitely not,” Devon says, pulling his head away.  He lets his hands wander up Derek’s back instead, gently pressing against his shoulder blades until Derek can rest on his shoulder instead.

“Oh God,” Derek mutters, the Alpha scent rolling off Devon hitting him even harder from this close.  

“I’d ask you to get out of here, but I’m pretty sure your bodyguards wouldn’t allow that sort of thing,” Devon says, pulling a chuckle out of Derek’s throat.  

His voice cracks and he tries to cover it with a cough.  He is absolutely not going to start whining into the ear of an Alpha he just met.  He doesn’t know anything about this man, but he smells so good, Derek can almost make himself believe he doesn’t care.

“Probably not,” he says instead, lifting his head to get a better look at Devon.

His eyes are so blue, like crystal clear water, and Derek can see them practically twinkle under the artificial lighting on the dance floor.  

Before he can think twice about it, Derek presses their lips together.  A giddy thrill runs through his body.  He’s in public, anyone could be watching, and here he is, kissing a hot Alpha on his birthday.  Maybe the age of maturity isn’t as much of a myth as he thought.  

Devon responds immediately, wrapping his arms around Derek’s shoulders and parting his lips.  They both taste like booze, but Derek doesn’t care, he teases into Devon’s mouth with his tongue and is met with even more enthusiasm.  Someone is cat-calling them.  Derek is pretty sure Lydia is wolf-whistling, but he doesn’t mind.  He’s content to sigh into Devon’s mouth and enjoy himself for once in his life.

Devon’s hands roam over his body, settling into the back pockets of his jeans, and Derek’s knees almost give out.  “How about we move out of the center of attention?” Devon asks, motioning to a booth in the corner.  

Derek hesitates, but surely kissing a man in a pre-approved club won’t get him in too much trouble.  He’s got his panic button and he’s still got line of sight with at least three of his protective agents.  He nods, praying his face isn’t as red as it feels, and lets Devon lead him off the dance floor.  It isn’t until he catches the logo on the back of Devon’s jacket, an intertwined Alpha and Omega symbol, that everything slots into place.

His feet leave the floor, and before he can process what’s happening, he’s flung over Devon’s shoulder looking at the ground.  His glasses fall off and clatter on the floor.  Everything gets blurry.  The lights on the dance floor all spread into halos that blend together into fuzzy circles.  Derek curses himself for refusing to put in his contacts when he was getting ready.  He hadn’t exactly planned on being kidnapped today.

He can hear Erica scream and lifts his head to catch what is happening, but he can’t make anything out.  The sudden shift in his stomach makes his head spin and he can’t stop himself from vomiting.  Derek tries to cry out, to see what’s happening to his friends, but his throat is burning and his stomach is spasming, nearly cutting off his air supply.  Erica is still screaming and several other voices have joined the fray.  

“Derek!” he hears Isaac shout, but everything sounds distorted and Derek can feel the tunnel vision start to set in.  He’s drunk and choking on vomit and can’t catch his breath.  Tears are streaming down his face and his body lurches again when he is dumped on the floor.  The true magnitude of his situation settles in when he finds the clarity to check his pockets for his panic button.  It’s gone.  

A swift kick to the stomach takes him off guard and he can barely protest being thrown onto his stomach.  His wrists are bound and a bag is thrown over his head.  Derek tries to throw it off by flinging his body around, but that only makes his stomach hurt and his head spin.  Someone’s hands grip his shoulders and he’s kneed in the side.  A hard hit to his temple makes the world go even more dim and he struggles to stay conscious.  

“Help!”  he screams, but there’s so much commotion he’s not sure anyone can hear him.  A boot collides with his stomach again and he curls in on himself, instinctively protecting his organs.  He can’t do much to cover his face though, and a sharp pain sparks behind his eyes tell him that his nose is probably broken.  “Isaac!” he tries to shout, but blood fills his mouth and all that comes out is a garble of noise.  The salty, metallic taste hits his tongue and his stomach rolls again, filling his mouth with bile.  

Hands grab his waist and he can feel himself being lifted off the floor again.  He kicks his legs out and manages to hurt the person enough that he’s dropped heavily on the floor.  Derek goes down hard on his shoulder and is surprised he doesn’t hear a bone break.  Hands grab him by the legs this time and he’s bound at the ankles too before they grab him under the arms and start dragging him down a flight of stairs.  The door closes behind them and they’re cast into darkness.  

Derek wriggles and thrashes, but can’t seem to break free.  Voices are arguing now, but the noise echoes off the walls of the stairwell and his head is so fuzzy he can’t make anything out.  A light bright enough to shine through the bag nearly blinds him and Derek prays he’s been saved.  Several gunshots go off and he's dropped again as the kidnappers go for their own weapons.  

He tumbles down the steps until his body hits a concrete landing.  It’s wet, and the puddle of whatever he’s fallen in cools his overheated skin as it soaks his shirt.  Derek presses his ear to his shoulder trying to block out the worst of the earsplitting noise.  He sucks in a breath through his mouth—his nose a lost cause—and tries not to gag.

“Derek?!” a voice cries.  Footsteps pound down the stairwell to where he lies crumpled in a heap, wet and shivering.  The bag is pulled from his face and he squeezes his eyes shut against the harsh light.  Stiles is there, mere inches from his face, holding a flashlight, his weapon abandoned in the puddle beside them.  “Derek, can you hear me?”

He gives a small nod, breath filling his lungs in a shuddering inhale.  It’s impossible to stop himself.  Derek sobs.  

“It’s okay, it’s okay, I got them all,” Stiles says, lowering the flashlight.  “This is Stilinski, I’ve got Eyebrows,” he says into his comm link.  

Derek hears a knife flick open and is relieved to feel the bindings on his wrists and ankles being cut.  He twists his wrists in a circle, wincing as the blood starts flowing back to his extremities.  His fingers burn, but he ignores it.  There are worse pains to deal with.

“Here you go,” Stiles says, very carefully setting Derek’s glasses on his nose.  “Thanks for leaving me a breadcrumb,” he adds, voice a little thick as he pushes the glasses up to Derek’s eyes for him.  “Might have taken me a while to find you otherwise.  There’s tons of dark corners in this place.”

The glasses are smudged, but not broken and Derek is relieved.  It’s hard to describe the fear that overcomes him when he’s unable to see.  A blind Omega… it’s torture to be even more vulnerable than he already is.  At least if someone were to attack them now, he’d be able to see if he was kicking at the right person.

After a few blinks, Derek’s eyes adjust and he finally gets a good look at his savior.  Stiles is bleeding freely from a large gash across his forehead.  His lip is split and when his hands flutter up to Derek’s face, he can see that two of Stiles’ fingers are broken on his left hand.  “Derek?  Can I touch you?  I have to check your patch,” he says, and Derek barely hears the words before he’s nodding again.  

Stiles’ hands are shaking when they come up to his throat, but Derek sinks into the touch anyway.  Stiles presses around the edges of his patch and lets out a sigh of relief.  “South entrance in the stairwell, heading for rendezvous point delta.  Vulnerability check complete.  First aid required, send ambulance to point delta.”  Stiles pulls off his jacket and rips a sleeve off his dress shirt.  He folds it into a pad before wiping around Derek’s mouth and down his chin where the worst of the blood settled.  

Derek’s eyes widen when he sees a trail of birds and a set of dates tattooed across Stiles’ bicep.  Usually, those kinds of tattoos on Alphas are reserved for Omegas.  But Stiles said he’d never had an Omega, so this must be someone else, definitely a close relative.  His mother, Derek presumes, since his mom had mentioned Stiles’ father without the reverent tone she reserves for the dead.  He wants to ask, to confirm, but the words die in his throat and his jaw hurts.

It’s tough, but Derek fights the urge to gag.  When he opens his mouth, Stiles turns the fabric to a clean spot and wipes at his tongue, removing the top layer of grime.  It shouldn’t help, but Derek feels a little better without the blood caked inside his mouth.  

“Where are you hurt?” Stiles asks, hands roving over Derek’s cheeks and down his throat to his chest, pressing gently.  Derek gasps when Stiles’ long fingers flit over his bruised ribs.  “Some of these might be broken.  You’re going to need x-rays.”

“ _You_ need x-rays,” Derek counters, but Stiles just rolls his eyes.  

“I’ve had worse,” he says simply, tilting Derek’s head to the side so he can check out the back.  “You’ve been hit on the head in multiple places and they’re bleeding.  Your nose is definitely broken.  You might have a concussion.  Can you stand?”

“ _Your_ head is bleeding,” Derek says again, raising a fumbling hand toward Stiles, stopping himself just shy of rubbing the blood off his forehead.  “You need stitches.  Like a lot of stitches,” he adds dumbly, thoughts coming out of his mouth in a jumbled mess.  Now would probably be a good time for him to stop talking.

“I’ve had worse,” Stiles repeats, and Derek’s eyes narrow.  “No one gets out of war unscathed.  If you’re good for the doctors maybe I’ll show you a scar or two.”

Derek hums.  His fingers feel numb and he’s shaking with the cold that has settled into his bones.  Stiles picks up his flashlight again and Derek winces when the light hits him.  

“You need a CT scan,” he says, pushing himself up from the floor with his good hand.  He picks up his service weapon and thumbs the safety on before slipping it back into his shoulder holster.  

Derek’s eyes follow the movement and travel over the other tattoos that are visible through his sweat-soaked white shirt.  He’s surprised by their number.  The wings of the Special Warfare insignia is pretty easy to spot, but there are a few other dark patches of ink on his chest, one of which has long spindly limbs that seem to reach out across his shoulder.  Derek is desperate to see what it is.

“Ready to get up?” Stiles asks when he hears sirens getting closer.  

Derek groans and bites his lip, pushing himself up from the floor.  His hands sink into the puddle up to the wrists, chilling him even further.  Stiles helps him to his feet and then grabs his jacket from a higher step, throwing it over Derek’s shoulders.  

There is a huge commotion when the EMTs arrive at the end of the alley, and Derek is poked and prodded until he wants to scream.  His only comfort is that when he’s loaded into the back of the ambulance, so is Stiles.  There’s a gauze pad taped across his brow.  Derek stares at him with a dopey grin on his face, the painkillers already taking him to the sky.  

“I like your tattoos,” Derek slurs behind the oxygen mask they’ve stuck on his face.  

Stiles just smiles at him, rocking slightly with the movement of the ambulance as it races toward Walter Reed.  The last thing Derek remembers is Stiles slipping the non-broken fingers of his left hand into Derek’s, squeezing him softly with a pleased smirk on his face.  

* * *

Derek spends five days in the hospital.  He’s ready to stage a jailbreak, but has to admit that the isolation and quiet has been good for his work ethic.  His thesis is nearly finished, but there are a few sections that are a little light and need additional resources.  That will take more effort than usual now though, because his mother has put him under what amounts to house arrest after the incident at the club.  All of Derek’s friends are fine, ranging from shaken up on Kira’s part to livid on Erica’s, and say they will visit the residence soon, but until then, Derek spends most of his time alone with his security detail.

The Traditionalist attack on Derek on his birthday had only encouraged his mother to redouble her efforts to have him mated off.  Once Derek is healed up and looking decent, his mother wastes no time in setting him up on dates, only inside the residence this time.  While none of them are as overtly backward as the first few had been, the little anti-Omega comments start to add up until all an Alpha has to do was look at him sideways before Derek is snapping at them.

Stiles and Isaac are on thin ice.  His mother is torn between being thankful that Derek is safe and only minorly injured and furious that the attack hadn’t been prevented in the first place.  Thankfully, most of her ire is set on the pre-screening team that was set up at the doors of the club.  Isaac and Stiles keep their jobs but get a thorough dressing down from their Commander in Chief.  Derek isn’t interested in being saddled with a new protective detail.  It takes time for him to trust people, and Derek doesn’t want to put his life in the hands of strangers, no matter how well vetted.

As the days wear on, Stiles and Isaac keep him company in the evenings, sitting through countless documentaries and war films.  Stiles’ fingers are splinted, but they do nothing to stop him from kicking Isaac’s ass whenever they spar on the carpet in Derek’s bedroom.  The stitches on his forehead are extensive, but only make him look more distinguished.  

This only serves to further frustrate Derek.  He hasn’t seen any more of Stiles’ tattoos but often finds himself staring at the parts of Stiles’ suit that he knows cover the ink.  If Stiles has caught him looking, he hasn’t let on.

Three weeks into Derek’s house arrest, his heat arrives.  He spends it much the same way that he always does, with an Omega nurse on standby and the scent of an unknown Alpha in his nose.  For days, he strokes and rocks himself to dozens of unsatisfying orgasms, one after the other until all of the sensation bleeds together into white noise.  He thinks about spindly tattoos creeping across pale collar bones and subtle quirks of thin lips.  He thinks of freckles and long eyelashes, closer than they’ve ever been before, and then closer still.  

He tells himself nothing has changed.  He shouldn’t have any trouble looking Stiles in the eye after spending three days furiously rubbing himself off to the thought of the man’s lips on his throat.  He shouldn’t, but he does.

Friday rolls around, which Derek has mentally started referring to as _Torture Night_.  Every Friday night for the past two months, Derek’s mother has set him up on a date with a prospective Alpha.  Tonight’s contestant is Christopher Argent, a middle-aged arms dealer with bright blue eyes and a full beard.  Argent greets him with a handshake, which he appreciates, and the two sit down to dinner with Stiles standing in the corner, staring at the wall.

“It was nice of your mother to think of me,” Argent says, placing his napkin in his lap and pouring Derek a glass of ice water from a pitcher on the table.

“I imagine your support of her last bill might have had something to do with it, Mr. Argent,” Derek replies, grateful for the cool water that soothes his throat.

“Please, call me Chris.”

“That wasn’t an answer, Chris,” Derek says, wondering if the Alpha will tell him off for being too aggressive.

“You noticed that, huh?” he asks, a hint of amusement in his voice.  Derek likes the sound of it.  It’s rough and gravely.  It sounds like what Derek thinks the scratch of his salt and pepper beard might feel like on his skin.  A tiny little bit of a squirm ripples through the pit of his stomach.  

“I’m a politician’s son,” Derek shoots back.  “I know a non-answer when I hear one.”  When he looks up, Stiles is staring at him, but quickly looks away.  

“I’m not really here to discuss your mother’s relationship with the gun manufacturers or the NRA,” Chris says.  He smiles, and his teeth are very white and almost painfully straight.  For some reason, this sounds like a completely reasonable answer to Derek’s question.  

“What would you like to discuss instead?” Derek asks, looking forward to hearing Chris’ voice reverberate in his chest again.  

“Why don’t you tell me a bit about yourself?  What are you studying?”

Derek speaks for over ten minutes about his thesis project, and Chris actually seems to be interested.  He asks thoughtful questions and even offers to set Derek up with a few veterans he knows in case he’d like to do some interviews.  

“I hadn’t thought about that before,” Derek admits, though it seems obvious now.  Chris goes on about his contacts for a few minutes while Derek thinks it over.  

Of course he should have gotten some first-hand knowledge about Omegas in the military from veterans.  He visits the Vietnam Memorial frequently and never once took the time to talk to the guides or other visitors.  Usually, he shies away from strangers in public places, always wary they will want to scream at him about one of his mother’s policies or perceived shortcomings.  

Chris is smiling at him, and it makes Derek feel brave.  “I visit the National Mall a lot.  Maybe we could go together,” Derek suggests, cheeks heating up.  “A new exhibit is opening at the American History Museum.”

“Have you been to the U.S. Navy museum recently?” Chris asks.  

Stiles clears his throat and looks pointedly at the Alpha when he catches the couple’s attention.  

Derek glances up at him, but can’t read his face.  There is nothing happening here that should concern Stiles.  Derek hasn’t used any of his alert words.  By any metric, this is the best date Derek has been on in months.  

“They’re focusing on the 75th anniversary of World War II this month,” Chris continues.  

Stiles clears his throat again.  Derek looks up this time and sees that Stiles is staring at Chris and not him.  His face is set in anger, which Derek can’t even begin to understand.  In fact, Stiles seems to be hellbent on ruining a perfectly pleasant evening.  

“Is something wrong, Agent Stilinski?” Derek asks, eyebrows furrowed.  He’s starting to get mad.  Who is Stiles to disapprove of his company?  He works for Derek, after all.

Stiles doesn’t even look at him.  He is focused solely on Argent when he says, “Tell him now or I will.”

Argent stiffens in his seat.  

Derek is seething when he says, “What are you talking about, Stilinski?  Is there some kind of problem?”

“I was getting to it,” Argent says through his teeth, attempting to keep a soothing smile on his face for Derek while his anger toward Stiles grows.

“Get to it quickly,” Stiles snaps before setting his eyes on the wall again.

“What’s all this about?” Derek asks, eyes flicking between Chris and Stiles, neither of whom are forthcoming.  “Chris?” he asks, focusing his attention on the person he thinks is most likely to answer as Stiles is still dutifully staring at the wall.  The gall of him.  It makes Derek’s skin itch.  

”One of you better start talking.  Right now,” Derek says, face set in anger.  If this is some kind of joke, he’s going to be furious.  It’s bad enough that he has to be set up on these ridiculous dates by his mother, if they’re only doing it to mock him, they are going to pay for it.

Silence reigns supreme.

Over a minute goes by and Chris does nothing but stare at Derek, eyes searching and wide, almost fearful.  Eventually, Chris closes his eyes and lets out a slow breath before saying, “I’m not an Alpha.”

“What?” Derek says, looking between him and Stiles for some sort of confirmation.  Stiles nods ever so slightly, confirming Chris’ claim.  “What do you mean, you’re not an Alpha?”

“I’ve been posing as an Alpha all my life.  Argents don’t recognize Omegas as family,” he says bluntly, bitter tone giving Derek all of the backstory he needs.  “In our line of work, an Omega is seen as a liability, a weakness.  I could either conform or be disowned.”

Derek’s gaze softens.  It’s not an uncommon story, and he sympathizes.  “I’m sorry,” he says, knowing it’s not the most helpful sentiment, but unable to come up with anything else.  

“I’m not unhappy, but my situation does make it rather difficult to find a lasting relationship,” Chris admits, taking a gulp of water and steeling his expression.  

“I can imagine,” Derek says, shaking his head in disbelief.  

“So that’s why I’m here tonight,” Chris adds, sitting up tall in his chair.  “I have a proposition for you.”

“A proposition?” Derek asks, eyes narrowing in Stiles’ direction when the man lets out a disapproving huff of air.  “What kind of proposition?” he asks Argent, leaning forward slightly like they are about to share a secret.

“I’m offering my companionship, and my hand in marriage,” he says, cool as a cucumber.

Derek admires his courage.  If the roles were reversed, he’s not sure he would have been brave enough to make such an offer.  It’s a miracle that no one, including Derek’s mother, seems to have caught on to Chris’ true dynamic.  Derek imagines what kind of strength it must take to hide so expertly.  He finds it inspiring and sad at the same time.  

“I like you, Derek,” Chris says, voice softer now, but no less compelling.  “I think we could make each other happy.  Maybe not the way an Alpha would, but the way good friends might.  So if you’d like to think about it, I’d be happy to wait for your answer.”

“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Argent…” Derek trails off, searching for the right words.  He’s astonished by himself that his first instinct is not to say no.  He takes off his glasses and rubs at the lenses stalling for time.

“Chris,” he corrects, forcing Derek’s eyes back up to his face, even out of focus.

“Chris,” Derek repeats, smiling and replacing his glasses.  “It is an interesting proposition, and one that requires serious consideration.  Would you like to have dinner again next Friday?  I’ll give you my answer then.”

“I’d love to,” Chris replies, standing up from his seat and giving Derek a kiss on the cheek before leaving the room.  Derek doesn’t miss the challenging look Stiles gives him on the way out.

“How did you know?” he asks, folding his hands and staring down at the table.  “I would never have been able to tell.  You can’t sense even a little Omega on him.”

“His patch,” Stiles begins, stepping forward and out of the corner.  “I’ve seen them before; Bratch.  It’s a company that makes cross-dynamic masking patches.  Very expensive and very hard to come by.  I saw a few of them in the Navy.  Betas or even Omegas trying to get through training under the radar.”

“Maybe I should interview you for my thesis,” Derek says gruffly, pushing away from the table and leaving the dining room.  

“I thought you’d never ask,” Stiles replies, trailing after him through the residence and back to Derek’s room.  “Eyebrows back in the Cove.  Agent Ramirez to the door, Stilinski inside,” he says into his comm-link before letting Derek into his room and shutting the door behind them.

A few minutes pass in silence as Derek loosens his tie and finds a change of clothes.  He offers a pair of sweatpants and a tee shirt to Stiles who takes them, turning his back on Derek to change.  Derek slips into the bathroom and closes the door just enough to give himself cover to peek at the end of a skeletal limb that trails onto Stiles’ back.  The large tattoo skims over Stiles’ deltoid.  One tiny foot reaches all the way to his shoulder blade, minuscule cuneiform bones inked in right over the knob of his humeral head.  

Derek lets out a breath and presses his head against the doorframe.  He may have thought about this during his heat, but that doesn’t mean that Stiles is interested.  More than that, he has a serious offer of marriage on the table, and with things the way they are right now, he’s not sure he can walk away from it.  Chris was nice and funny, handsome even.  

So maybe Derek isn’t bent, but that doesn’t mean he couldn’t try it if Chris were up for it.  Either way, he would be able to spend his life with a good friend.  They might even be able to bring Alphas home if they were discreet about it.  He would be able to get the Traditionalist groups and his mother off his back.  Ending the parade of insulting Alphas would be the biggest bonus.  If he were mated, he’d never have to deal with an overbearing Alpha breathing down his neck ever again.  It was more than a little tempting.

“You alright?” Stiles calls from his bedroom.  

“Yes,” Derek says back, shutting the door quickly.  He leans over the sink, looking at himself in the mirror for a moment before closing his eyes and breathing deeply once more.  Changing quickly, Derek throws his suit in the hamper and washes his face.  He pats himself dry with a towel and presses his fingertips to his patch, making sure it’s lying flat.  It’s a new one that he applied right after his heat, so if anything, it should be as sticky as ever, but that doesn’t stop Derek from patting it nervously.  

He brushes his teeth too, though he doesn’t know why, and heads back to the bedroom.  Stiles is sitting in his desk chair, spinning in slow circles and tossing a Rubik's cube in the air.  Derek sits down on the edge of his bed and waits for Stiles to stop spinning.  

The tee shirt he borrowed is too big on him, and Derek is interested to see that the pajama bottoms are too short, showing off several inches of Stiles’ ankles and his bony feet.  Derek can see the thick corded muscles in his calves, the veins that run over the tops of his feet, the hair thick on his toes.  He immediately thinks about the bones tattooed over Stiles’ shoulder and wonders if he has the courage to ask to see them again.

Instead, he starts with, “So, what is your opinion about Omegas serving in the armed forces?”  

Stiles screeches to a halt, nearly dropping the Rubik’s cube as it bounces off the arm of the office chair.  “Just diving right in, huh?” Stiles says, lips tilting into a smile.  Derek tries not to focus on the way his honey brown eyes seem to twinkle with amusement.  “No foreplay?”

Derek tries not to choke.  He’s sure his surprise is written all over his face, but does his best to swallow it down.  “Why don’t you just tell me about your military history instead?” he asks, proud of himself for getting any words out at all.  “Start from the beginning.”

“The beginning would be the Naval Academy.  Then BUD/S training and PSTs.”  Stiles catches Derek’s confused look and elaborates.  “Sorry, the military loves acronyms.  That’s Basic Underwater Demolition SEALs training and Physical Screening Tests.  The first part, Basic?  That has Hell Week and drown-proofing.  It’s when most people drop out.”

“Drown-proofing?” Derek asks, though he’s pretty sure he knows the answer.

“Have you ever been thrown in the ocean with your feet and hands bound?  After only a few hours of sleep that week and 200 sand miles in boots and wet clothes under your belt?”

Derek can do nothing but shake his head.  Stiles’ face is dark and it’s clear he’s remembering some of the worst days of his life.  He wants to ask, but decides to wait Stiles out.  They’re quiet for several minutes.  

Eventually, Stiles’ eyes fall closed like he’s working himself up to something.  Derek tries to be patient, but he’s on the edge of the mattress, practically holding his breath.  

“An Omega made it all the way to BUD/S basic… wearing one of those Bratch patches.  I think he would have made it too, if it hadn’t come off in the water during a dive.  Those patches… “ he trails off, hand going up to the side of his neck as if checking that his own is still in place.  “They’re meant to last.  We shower in them, go swimming, whatever, for a whole month.  If an Omega takes enough suppressants for their heats and remembers to change their patch, they could hide indefinitely.  But one slip up, one week of zero sleep and constant pain and you forget to put on a new patch.  It washed right off…”

“What happened?” Derek asks, afraid of what the answer will be.

“The rest of us were all still wearing our patches, so it wasn’t as bad as it could have been.  No one got hurt, but you could feel the difference.  The Alphas… we just broke down.  Couldn’t watch an Omega do that to themselves.  It was torture for the Alphas, and yeah, a few Betas made it through, but the Omega... Markus… not only was it illegal, it was dangerous.”

“You said no one got hurt,” Derek protests.

“—The _situation_ was dangerous, Derek,” Stiles says, and Derek gets lost for a second.  It isn’t often that Stiles uses his first name, and he cherishes every time it happens.  “Even if intellectually, I know that an Omega can do whatever they set their mind to, biologically, I can’t stop thinking about what might happen to them, how it’s my duty to stop it.”

“We don’t need your protection,” Derek says, anger growing in his voice.  

“No, you don’t,” Stiles says, but Derek can’t help but think that it doesn’t quite ring true.  “But that doesn’t stop what Alphas feel.”

“And this is all about what Alphas feel?  What about how Omegas feel?  How they feel every day?  When the world tells them they’re only good for one thing and they don’t get to have dreams?  That they’re not capable of accomplishing anything real?” Derek says, jumping off the bed.

Stiles gets up as well, grabbing Derek by the hand to face him.  “I understand what you’re saying, but you have to think about the implications.”

Derek rolls his eyes, but Stiles pushes on, “Imagine this.  A squad has a mix, Alphas, Betas, and Omegas.  They all share bathrooms and sleeping quarters and things seem to be going okay, but you throw that team into battle, you put that Omega in danger, and everything falls apart.  Suddenly it’s not about the mission, it’s not about getting everyone out alive.  Suddenly it’s about protecting the Omega.  And God forbid they should get captured.  Every man on the base would be volunteering for a suicide mission to get them back.”

“I don’t see why it’s any different than women serving.  If it’s because you don’t think we can handle it—”

“—that’s not it at all,” Stiles says, shaking his head.  “Look at you,” he says, hand trailing up to Derek’s bicep.  

Derek holds his breath.  The minute he feels Stiles’ squeeze, he’s brought back to a few weeks ago, blinding pain and the jostle of an ambulance, all paling in comparison to the gentle pressure of Stiles’ fingers in his hand.  

“Listen to me,” Stiles says when he realizes he doesn’t have Derek’s full attention.  “There is no one in the Navy that would have said you weren’t physically capable of serving.  I’ve seen you bench press.  I’ve seen you run.  You’re strong and competent and tough as brass.  I saw an Omega make it all the way to drown-proofing with the SEALs.  If he could do it, so could you.”

Derek smiles at that.  Stiles’ hand hasn’t left his arm.  They’re closer than they’ve been since his injury and Derek wishes they could stay this way, constantly in each other’s orbit, only an arm’s reach away.  

“The problem comes in when you get sent off base, into combat,” Stiles says, squeezing down on his bicep one more time.  “If you were my Omega, and we were under fire…”

Derek can’t stop staring.  His eyes drop to Stiles’ mouth and he bites his lip, reminding himself not to do anything stupid.  

“...Nothing on God’s green Earth could stop me from standing in front of every single bullet that was aimed at you.”  Stiles licks his lips and exhales, pulling away and sitting back down in the office chair.  

Derek swallows, biting his lip again and searching for words as his heart pounds in his throat.  A minute passes.  “And that’s no way to win a war,” Derek says finally, letting himself fall back down onto the bed.

“Exactly,” Stiles says, his head tipping back against the chair’s headrest as he lets the tension out of his body.  “It isn’t some prejudice that’s come from centuries of sexist bullshit.  This isn’t social constructs telling you that being feminine or Omega is less than, this is a biological imperative.  It’s instinct, and it’s not something that can be unlearned.  If you took Alphas out of the equation, that might be a different story.  If you only had Betas, maybe… the impulse isn’t as strong in them.”  He folds his arms behind his head and slouches in his chair, opening his eyes and giving Derek a challenging look.

“That’s an interesting theory,” Derek says, tempted to pull out his laptop and start taking notes.  “I’ll have to see if there’s any research about Beta and Omega groups serving together.”

“Any other questions I could answer?” Stiles asks, smiling softly.

Derek can see the birds tattooed on his bicep from here.  He’s itching to touch them, to see if the skin feels different where the ink lies.  “What does the Navy SEAL insignia look like?” he asks, trying for casual.

“It’s a globe, an anchor and trident crossed, an eagle, and a rifle,” Stiles says easily.  “We call it the trident usually, or the Budweiser.  Because of BUD/S training, you know?  Budweiser?”

“Yeah, I get it,” Derek says, face falling slightly.

“If you wanted me to take my shirt off, all you had to do was ask,” Stiles says, giving him a shit-eating grin.

Grabbing a pillow off the bed, Derek throws it in Stiles’ face, mindful of the new scar there.  “That would have been rude,” he says, though all he really wants to do is hide his own face in embarrassment.  Stiles laughs and throws the pillow back, allowing Derek to do just that.  

“Well,” Stiles says, reaching for the hem of his borrowed tee, “since you’re the boss.”  He pulls it off over his head and kneels on the carpet in front of Derek’s bed.  When Derek pulls the pillow off his face, he’s just a few inches away from Stiles’ chest, at eye level with his trident tattoo.

“Did it hurt?” Derek asks, hand flitting up to touch it before he can catch himself.  

“After Hell Week and BUD/S, I felt like I could handle anything,” Stiles says, grabbing Derek by the wrist and pressing the palm to his chest.  “It wasn’t my first tattoo anyway.  That was this one,” he says, turning his body until Derek can see the birds and date on his bicep.  

Even months out of active duty, Stiles is still in perfect shape.  His arms are smaller than Derek’s but still corded in lean muscle.  His forearms are veiny and taut.  The sight of them makes Derek’s skin itch, his fingers tremble to touch.  

“When did you get this one?” he asks, pulling Stiles in by the forearm until his nose is an inch from the ink.  The hair on Stiles’ arm is thick and dark.  If he weren’t an Alpha, it would look out of place, but on Stiles, it’s perfect.  His skin is warm under Derek’s touch and he imagines what it would feel like under his tongue, what Stiles would taste like.

“My mother died when I was eight,” Stiles says, voice barely more than a whisper.  It didn’t need to be loud; Derek was just a breath away.  “So I got that one on my 18th birthday.  As soon as it was legal and my dad couldn’t bust me for it.”

“It’s beautiful,” Derek says, tracing the date with his pointer finger.  Stiles shivers, and Derek pulls his finger back, giving him enough room to escape if he wants to.  Apparently, Stiles doesn’t want to.  He pushes into Derek’s hand and gives him a small smile.

“What’s this one?” he asks, bypassing the Navy logo on Stiles’ right bicep and reaching up to his collarbone.  He can now see that it’s the skeleton of a frog, thin black bones spanning from his left pectoral, over his deltoid and to his shoulder.  

“It’s because I’m a Frogman.  All of us got them after we were done with combat diving training,” he says, turning in the chair so Derek can see every inch of the tattoo.  “I got this one when I graduated Annapolis,” he adds, touching his right bicep.  “All the important milestones in my life got a tattoo.”

Derek reminds himself, unhelpfully, that Stiles hasn’t had any romantic relationships that deserved a tattoo.  He’s never had an Omega, never spent a heat with his best friend.  As far as Derek knows, Stiles has never been with an Omega at all, though he had carefully avoided answering that question the first time Derek asked it.  

“They’re really incredible,” Derek says, still staring at the birds on Stiles’ bicep, wondering what his mother was like.  Derek’s only ever known tough love and professionalism from his mother.  Something about Stiles makes Derek think that his mother was nothing like President Hale.  “You’re incredible,” he says, licking his lips.

Stiles’ eyes trail after him, but he doesn’t make a move.  It feels like there’s static between them, the promise of electricity clicking to life if only they could find the right channel.  Before Derek can even think about leaning in, Stiles sits back, grabbing his tee shirt from the floor and pulling it back over his head.  The room seems to chill immediately.  Derek’s fingers tingle with the loss of Stiles’ warm skin underneath them.

Just before Stiles covers up, Derek catches a glimpse of a scar running along the right side of his abdomen.  He wants to ask about it, but knows the moment has passed.  Stiles hadn’t let Derek see the scar for a reason.  Now, with less than two feet of distance between them, it feels like a mile.  He missed his opportunity and Derek doesn’t know if he’ll ever get the chance again.  

“Can I ask you something?” Stiles asks, lips turning into a frown.

Derek sits up on the edge of the bed again and nods.  

“Are you actually considering Argent’s proposal?”

“I’m not sure that’s any of your business,” Derek says, though there’s not as much bite behind it as Derek had hoped.  Stiles could have kissed him a minute ago, and he didn’t.  If the Alpha wasn’t going to make a move, Derek wasn’t going to spare his feelings.  Stiles didn’t get to have it both ways, to care and not care, to crave but not give in.

“Humor me,” Stiles says, leaning forward to balance his elbows on his knees.  

“I like him,” Derek says, because that’s the most obvious and easiest answer to give.  “He’s intelligent, he’s nice, he actually listened when I talked, and he’s handsome,” he adds.  Now he’s just trying to pick a fight.  If he finds the right button, he might be able to annoy Stiles into making a declaration of some sort.

Stiles rolls his eyes.  “He’s not even an Alpha!”

“So what?” Derek asks, voice rising.  “There’s nothing wrong with being an Omega!”

“I didn’t say there was,” Stiles argues.  

Derek knows he’s putting words into Stiles’ mouth, but right now he doesn’t care.  He’s angry and frustrated and just wants to feel something.  He definitely wants to make Stiles feel something, and if it isn’t affection, he’ll take righteous indignation instead.  

“You’re not bent, Derek,” Stiles says, sighing and getting up to pace the room.

“I could be!” Derek argues.  Even as he says it, he knows it’s not true.  As much as he likes him, Derek isn’t attracted to Chris Argent.  He knows he would never be satisfied with an Omega, not now that he knows what being attracted to an Alpha feels like.

“Maybe you could, but I know that’s not what you really want!”

“If you’re so smart, why don’t you tell me what I want?” Derek yells.  “You’ve barely been here three months and you think you know me?  You don’t know shit about my life!  You have no idea what it’s like to be me!”

Stiles opens his mouth to shout back, but never gets the chance.  The door opens and Agent Ramirez peeks in the room asking, “Is everything alright in here, Mr. Hale?”

Derek is embarrassed.  His chest is heaving with emotion and he knows his face is flushed.  Pain bites into his palms where his hands are clenched into fists at his side and his whole body is tensing up.  “We’re fine,” Derek says, looking away from Stiles’ face.  There’s only anger there, not affection, not love.  Derek doesn’t see any reason to hope, so he says, “Agent Stilinski was just leaving.”

Stiles stares at him.  There’s hurt in his eyes, but Derek ignores it, walking to the door and holding it open.  He doesn’t have any room in his heart to feel bad for Stiles right now.  Omegas always care too much.  It’s why people call them fragile, overly emotional.  Derek refuses to let some stupid Alpha break him.

Stiles ducks his head and nods, heading for the exit.  “I’m sorry Mr. Hale.  That was out of line,” he says, licking his lips.  “I won’t bother you about it again.  Goodnight.”

With that, Stiles grabs his suit and shoes and leaves.  

Agent Ramirez catches his eye, but Derek just shakes his head.  He doesn’t need anything.  There’s nothing he needs that Agent Ramirez could give, so he holds the door open and nods his head.  Thankfully, Agent Ramirez takes the hint and leaves him alone.  He slams the door behind the agents and collapses onto his bed, determined not to cry.  Instead, he imagines his life with Chris Argent and tries to find happiness in it.

* * *

Derek invites Chris to dinner on Friday.  They can’t leave the White House, but he manages to keep it casual anyway.  Dressed in jeans and a green sweater, feet bare, Derek welcomes Chris into the eat-in kitchen of the residence, not the formal dining room they met in.  

“I didn’t know you could cook,” he says, smiling when Derek steps away to stir a pot on the stove.

“Uhh…” Derek says, peering into the pot and warily poking at the contents with a spoon.  “I can’t actually.  I’m heating up some stew?  The chef made it ahead of time.”

He expects Chris to be disappointed with him, but the man just laughs, a loud, raucous thing that fills the kitchen.  Derek joins in too, more than a little nervous and thankful that Isaac had agreed to guard him from outside the room.  

“I don’t expect you to cook for me,” Chris says, still chuckling.  He wipes a few stray tears from under his eyes on the cuff of his flannel button down.  “Just because I’m playing Alpha doesn’t mean I have an Alpha’s expectations of my mate.”

“Oh, good,” Derek says, letting out a breath and adjusting his glasses.  “Because I’m not sure I can toast this bread without burning it,” he says, gesturing to the loaf of sourdough that sits on the cutting board.

“Here,” Chris says, picking up the knife and squaring up the bread.  “I’m good with knives at least.”  He slices evenly and efficiently adding, “I’m good with any kind of weapon, really.”

“That’s good to know,” Derek says, watching his hands as he moves, knuckles curled in safely.  He likes the way Chris’ hands look.  They’re tan and rough, but kind somehow.  His grip is light on the knife, and that settles something in Derek’s mind.  “Can I get you a drink?” Derek asks, pulling two wine glasses from overhead.  

“Yes, thank you,” Chris says, beginning to butter both sides of the bread before placing it on a baking sheet.  “Let’s see which one of us remembers to flip this,” he says, sliding the sheet into the oven.

“If the fire alarm goes off, I’m blaming you,” Derek teases.  “I’m still in trouble with the Secret Service after letting Cora catch the drapes on fire with a candle when she was ten.”

“Letting her?” Chris asks, accepting a glass of red wine from Derek’s hand.  Their fingers brush, and while Derek doesn’t feel anything like the electricity he got from Stiles, there’s something warm and familiar about it.

“I was supposed to be watching her,” Derek admits.  “She was going through a pyromania phase.”

“I’d love to meet her one day,” Chris says, and his smile is genuine.  

“She’d like you,” Derek says easily, really believing it himself.  “She’d love you to teach her how to use a bow and arrow.  Katniss Everdeen is her hero.”

“Not a bad choice,” Chris admits.  “I have a niece Allison that’s nationally ranked in archery.  They would get along great.

“That sounds nice,” Derek says, unable to stop himself from smiling.  Weaving his family together with Chris’... it feels right.  He’s not overcome with lust talking to the man, but being here with him feels comfortable.  It feels doable, and right now, Derek is perfectly happy with doable.

“No Agent Stilinski today?” Chris asks.

“He’s on leave for a few days.  His father is visiting.”

“That’s good,” Chris says blandly.  

Derek can’t tell if it’s just polite curiosity or if Chris plans on murdering the Alpha in his sleep, so he asks.  “Are you going to have a problem with him?  Because he’s leading my detail until the Traditionalist threat has been neutralized.”

“Of course not, no,” Chris says.  “I wasn’t sure if he was going to have a problem with me.  If we’re going to keep the charade up, we can’t have anyone spilling our secret, and if some macho Alpha decides to out us, we’re toast.”

“He’s not a macho Alpha,” Derek says, eyes lowering to the floor.  It feels wrong to defend Stiles after the argument they had about this very topic, but he can’t stop himself from doing it.

“The man is a Navy SEAL _of course_ he’s a macho Alpha.  He could kill me with two fingers,” Chris points out.

"He’d probably only need one finger,” Derek says, though he knows it’s unhelpful.  

Luckily, Chris just laughs again.  Derek likes the sound of it.  The light overhead glints off the silver hairs in Chris’ beard.  He looks… not so much old, but distinguished.  Derek pretends it doesn’t matter that Chris might be old enough to be his father.  They’re not going to really be together, so it shouldn’t be a factor.  Derek is allowed to have friends of any age, right?

“He wouldn’t betray us,” Derek says.  Even after their fight, even knowing nearly nothing about Stiles, he knows it to be true.  

“Are you in love with him?” Chris asks.

The question takes Derek off guard.  He must be too slow to answer because Chris adds, “It’s okay if you are.  I’d just like to know what’s going on before we make any serious decisions.  If he’s going to be in our lives, I should probably get to know him a little better.”

“I’m not in love with him,” Derek says quietly, willing his voice to be more convincing.  “And once we’re married and the Traditionalist threat is gone, he’ll be out of our lives for good.”

“Is that a yes then?  You want to do this with me?” Chris asks, taking Derek’s hand in his calloused one.  There’s a small smile on his face, and it grows to dazzling until the smoke alarm goes off, breaking the tension into peals of laughter.

“What have I told you about using the oven?” Isaac asks, rushing through the swinging kitchen doors to wave a nearby towel at the smoke detector.

Chris puts on oven mitts and takes the bread from the oven.  It’s charred on the bottom and smoldering.  “Just how I like it,” he jokes, which causes Isaac to join in with Derek’s laughter.  

Derek turns on the hood fan and once the alarm stops beeping, Isaac leaves them alone again.  He reaches for two bowls and spoons out some stew, placing them on the island.  

Chris grabs their wine glasses and joins him, still smiling as he scratches at his beard.  He takes a bite and his face immediately falls, mouth twisting into a grimace as he swirls the stew around in his mouth.  He tries to swallow, but after a few moments gives up, reaching into his mouth and pulling out a burnt flake of something that must have come from the bottom of the pot.  

“Don’t worry,” Derek says, laughing freely.  “We’ll hire a cook.”

Taking a huge swig of wine, Chris gargles with it, making Derek laugh even louder.

“Can’t wait,” he says, taking Derek’s hand and pressing a kiss to his knuckles.

* * *

“I hear congratulations are in order,” Stiles says a few days later.  “Your engagement was announced on the news this morning.”

“It leaked,” Derek says, dropping the piece of toast he was eating.  He didn’t really have an appetite anyway.  “We were going to make an announcement at the Correspondents’ Dinner.”

“At least the Traditionalist groups should be off your back now,” Stiles says.  

His tone is unreadable.  Derek narrows his eyes, but can’t discern anything from Stiles’ facial expression, so he says, “My mother is asking you to stay on until we’re married and fake mated, I suppose.  I guess I’ll need to get my first tattoo.  We can’t actually mark each other.”

“And have you set a date for the happy occasion?” Stiles asks, voice flat and even.  

If Derek didn’t know any better, he’d think Stiles had been replaced by a robot.  “I defend my thesis at the end of the month,” he says, taking a sip of coffee just for something to do.  “So it’ll be a short engagement.  Six weeks.  Then you’ll be free to go.”

Stiles just nods curtly and takes his guard stance, staring at the wall.  It’s supposed to offer Derek privacy while he eats and reads the newspaper, but being alone with his thoughts is the last thing Derek wants right now.

“How was your father?” he asks.  Despite the coldness between them, Derek really does care about Stiles and his family.  

“Good,” Stiles says, actually giving Derek a smile.  “It was his birthday so I took him to a Caps game.  He lectured me about finding a nice Omega to settle down with, same old same old.”  He shrugged.

Derek feels hot.  There’s no reason he should feel guilty about marrying an Omega.  There’s nothing wrong with being bent, even if Derek _isn't_ bent.  He made a commitment to Chris and he was going to honor it.  If they wanted to take on an Alpha, either together or separately, they could discuss it after they got married, after things were settled.  

Academically, Derek knows this.  Emotionally… not so much.  It doesn’t help that thinking of Chris and Stiles together makes his skin crawl.  He and Chris hadn’t discussed children, or who would father them, or what they would do about their heats.  There were a lot of unanswered questions, and Derek can’t stop thinking about them.

He needs to call Chris, to talk some of these things out, but Stiles’ gaze keeps him glued to his seat.  “Will you move back home after your assignment’s over?” he asks, telling himself not to be hopeful.  He shouldn’t want Stiles to stick around.  Everything would be easier if he could just get some distance.  

“Derek…” Stiles trails off, licking his lips.  “Once your mother relieves me of this post, I’ll be rejoining my team.  They’ve been deployed for months without me.”

Hearing his name roll off of Stiles’ tongue feels like catching a bullet in the chest, and the words that come after it are just salt in the wound.  “Where…” he starts.

Stiles just shakes his head.  “I can’t say.”

“Fuck that,” Derek says, pushing away from the table and going to stand in front of him.  “They don’t get to have you back.  You’ve given enough.”

“There’s no such thing as enough in the military, Derek,” he says, eyes falling to the floor.  

“No,” Derek says, reaching for him.  “Look at me,” he demands, waiting until Stiles reaches his eyes before speaking further.  “They don’t get your whole life.  You served for over ten years.  What if you want to find an Omega?  Start a family?  They don’t get your whole life, Stiles.”

“I’ll retire when my team does,” he says, looking down to where Derek has a few fingers wrapped around his wrist.  “We decide together.  It’s always unanimous.”

“Fuck that,” Derek says, almost shouting now.  His fingers squeeze so tight around Stiles’ wrist that he can feel the Alpha’s pulse fluttering under his fingertips.  It’s rapid and stuttering, much like Derek’s heart.  “They’ll just send you home in a body bag.  They don’t get your life.”

“It’s what I signed up for,” Stiles says, twisting his wrist out of Derek’s grasp.  “I protect this country so you don’t have to.  It’s what soldiers do.”

“And who’s protecting you?” Derek shouts again.  He can’t stop himself, the words just fall out of his mouth unbidden.  The air comes quickly in his lungs, overfilling them.  He feels ready to burst with the pressure.  “Sure as shit, my mom isn’t doing it.  She doesn’t give a crap about you, about any of you!”

“My team protects me.  They’re my family.  I’ll be fine,” Stiles says, taking a step back from Derek.  “I’ve always been fine.”

“You have not!” Derek screams.  “You have a huge scar on your stomach!  You can’t tell me whatever happened was fine!  YOU ARE NOT FINE!” he finishes, huffing breath like he’s just run a mile.

“What’s going on in here?” Isaac asks, stepping in from the hallway.  “Do I need to separate you two?  What the fuck is the problem?”

“The problem is,” Derek says, chest heaving.  “This fucking Alpha thinks he’s invincible.  Wants to take on all of ISIS by himself or some shit.  It’s not happening!”

“He’s upset that I plan to re-deploy,” Stiles says quietly.  

Isaac meets his gaze with a simple nod, like he understands perfectly.  

“You don’t get to take his side!” Derek shouts.  He wants to push Isaac, throw a punch, break a chair, or maybe just curl up in a ball and cry on the floor.  

“There aren’t any sides,” Isaac says.

Derek knows when he’s being coddled, and that tone of voice is one of the first signs.  

“Doing your duty is never a hardship,” Isaac says.

“I’m so sick of hearing that!  It’s fucking bullshit!”

“Derek,” Stiles says, and Derek can barely look at him.  “You’re getting married, your mother has less than a year left in office.  After that, you’ll be out of the White House and out of the press.  You won’t need me to protect you anymore.  But my team?  They do.  You have to let me do my duty.”

“You’re right,” Derek says, fighting back tears.  He won’t cry in front of Stiles.  He refuses to do it.  “I’ll have Chris and I won’t need you anymore.  I’m sorry,” he adds, before quickly striding out of the room, Isaac hot on his heels.  

“Eyebrows to the Cove,” he says into his comm link.

“I’m fine, Isaac.  Leave me alone,” Derek says when they make it to his bedroom.

“You’re not, but I’ll give you some privacy,” Isaac says, a half smile on his face.  “Just don’t mope too long.  It’s the dinner tonight and there’s press and pictures beforehand.  You need to be ready by three.”

“Thanks, Isaac.”

“Any time, Derek.”

* * *

Derek slips on the suit that was laid out for him and tries to pretend that he isn’t dressing for his own engagement shoot.  This is just another White House event.  It doesn’t mean anything.  None of them ever mean anything.  A bunch of rich and powerful people meet to drink and fluff each other’s egos while nothing gets done, while they send a bunch of strangers to fight and die for them in wars they have no business being in.  

He cleans his glasses carefully and makes sure his stubble is cleanly shaven.  He has an engagement photo to pose for.

“You decent?” Isaac asks, knocking lightly on his door before pushing it open.  

“Yes,” Derek says.  He’s just sitting down to tie on his shoes.

“Mind a visit from your fiancé?” he asks.

Derek nods and plasters a smile on his face when Isaac lets Chris in.  Chris however, looks distraught.  There are bags under his eyes and he’s sweating nervously.  It doesn’t make him any less handsome, but it worries Derek nonetheless.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, abandoning his shoes to take Chris’ hand and lead him to sit beside him.

“We’re in trouble,” Chris says, hand hot and damp on Derek’s wrist.  “Well, I’m in trouble.”

“What is it?  We can handle it together.”

“I take it you haven’t been online today?” Chris asks, not meeting Derek’s eye.  

“No, I’ve been busy,” Derek says.   _Busy pining_ , Derek corrects himself mentally, but that’s beside the point.  

“The story is going to break on TV any minute now, so you might as well hear it from me,” Chris says, taking a deep breath to steady himself.  

“Whatever it is, I’m not going to be mad,” Derek says.  He’s never seen Chris out of control before and it’s more than a little troubling.  

“Mad no, disappointed, definitely,” Chris says, a sad smile on his face.  “My niece Allison, the one I was telling you about?”

Derek nods, telling him to go on.

“She’s my daughter.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” Chris says, chuckling darkly.  “ _Oh_.”

“Did Allison know?  Is she okay?” Derek asks, desperately hoping that a little girl didn’t just find out the truth from a shady website.

“Yes,” Chris says, closing his eyes and letting out a pained breath.  “She lives with my ex-Alpha.  I visit her.  I just hid her from my father and the rest of my family.”

“Were you going to tell me about her?”

“I had hoped to,” Chris says slowly, choosing his words very carefully.  “In time, at least.”

“I’m not sure that’s any way to start a marriage,” Derek says, though he barely means it.  Chris doesn’t owe him anything, and it’s not like there aren’t things he’s keeping from Chris either.  

“I figured the marriage was off the table at this point,” Chris says.

He’s right.  Derek has no use for an outed beard, and marrying him now wouldn’t make any sense.  “I’d still like to be friends?” Derek says, actually hopeful.  He does like Chris and hasn’t had much in the way of Omega companionship since he was a child.  “Would you still be my date tonight?  I can’t sit through another one of these dinners by myself.”

“People will talk,” Chris says, shaking his head.  “You don’t need to associate yourself with me.”

“Actually,” Derek says, “if you’re up for it, I think it might be a good time to make a statement about the lengths Omegas will go to… just to get a little respect in this country.  You shouldn’t have been made to hide your daughter.  No Omega should feel like they need to hide their dynamic.  We should be treated equally, just like the 29th amendment says we should be.”

“You know this won’t change anything,” Chris says, still holding Derek’s hand.  “Your mother is trying to mollify the Traditionalist groups, not enrage them.”

“I don’t care,” Derek says, squeezing Chris’ hand before dropping it to slip on his shoes.  “It’s about time I took an active role in this administration… and there’s only a few months left to do it.”

“No time like the present,” Chris says, steeling himself for a storm.  

Derek can almost see him put his armor back on.  He shakes out his limbs, buttons his suit jacket, and stands up tall, squaring his shoulders.  It’s a good look on him, and Derek is proud to take his arm and leave the room, Isaac and Stiles falling into step behind them as they make their way to meet the press.

* * *

Dinner isn’t nearly as painful with Chris by his side.  Derek can almost tolerate the French ambassador sitting to his left, especially now that he knows Chris speaks French and can translate all of his muttered insults into Derek’s ear.  They laugh as the ambassador side-eyes them and drown themselves in wine.  

The press had been exhausting, but not entirely unkind.  Several of the White House staff reporters are Omegas and they were willing to let Derek get through his unrehearsed statement with minimum interruptions.  His mother has been shooting death glares at him from across the banquet hall all evening, but Derek is all smiles.  He’s proud of himself for the first time in years, and even his mother’s particular brand of Presidential disapproval is not going to bring him down.  

He is surprised and pleased to learn that Chris is a proficient dancer, leading him around the dance floor with ease and charm.  They spin and laugh as the big band plays, taking joy in Chris’ first night as a free Omega.  It’s infectious.  A huge weight has been lifted from the man’s shoulders and Derek feels buoyed by his relief.  

They have a few more rounds of drinks and get passed around the dance floor by Finstock, who is running the ballroom like a Swiss watch.  He manages to dodge his mother for a few songs, but by the time _In the Mood_ starts to play, Derek knows his luck has run out.  It’s not their song per se, but the jive is their dance of choice.  His mother smiles and holds out her hands, and Derek steps forward to take them, even though he knows he’s about to get scolded.

Thankfully, it’s an up-tempo number and there isn’t much room for talking in between the triple steps and swings.  Talia has a smile plastered across her face and manages to speak into Derek’s ear through clenched teeth whenever they come together for a spin.  

“What have I told you about speaking to the press without consulting my office?” she asks, still grinning from ear to ear as Derek twirls her.

“Not to,” is all Derek can manage to say.

“I could have given you some support.  Or at least let you announce my new Omega rights bill.”

“I thought you’d stuck that bill in a drawer,” Derek mutters, spinning his mother just in time to face a row of cameras at the corner of the dance floor.  He knows the press just eats this stuff up and after taking a stand for his dynamic earlier, he’s willing to put on a show to get his point across.

“I did, but that was when the public was against me.  If they rally behind you and your bent boyfriend, I could make a push for it.”

“He’s not bent,” Derek hisses, struggling not to roll his eyes when the cameras are on him.  “Neither am I for that matter.  And he’s not my boyfriend either.”

“You could have fooled me,” Talia says, throwing her head back and laughing when Derek dips her.  The press just eats it up.  It makes Derek want to puke.

“I’m allowed to have friends, Mom,” he whines, feeling like a teenager again.  Something about living in the fishbowl of the White House where his mother has all the power just throws him back to his childhood mindset, begging his mother for her permission or forgiveness in equal measure.

“Fine, you can have Omega and Beta friends,” she says, pulling him in close for a hug when the song ends, “but you can’t tell me that Agent Stilinski and you are just friends.”

“He’s not doing anything unprofessional,” Derek says immediately, worried for Stiles.  If his mother decides Stiles isn’t necessary for his protection anymore, he’ll be deployed before Derek even gets the chance to say goodbye.

“I never said he was.  But I know you, darling,” she says, pressing a kiss to Derek’s cheek before pulling away.  “A mother always knows.”

Derek does roll his eyes this time.  Chris waves at him from across the room, but Derek holds up a finger at him, needing to use the restroom before he takes his new friend for another spin around the dance floor.  

Stiles follows him out of the room and into the hall.  The Omega restroom turns out to be empty when they enter it, but Stiles still checks all of the stalls anyway.  They have full slatted doors that Stiles explains are easy to hide behind.

He could use a urinal, but now that Stiles is watching him again, he craves the privacy of a stall.  The clink of the lock sliding home rings in his ears and the opening of his zipper grates on his nerves.  “Can you like, turn the sink on or something?” he calls to Stiles, who he knows is just waiting for him to pee.  

“Sure,” Stiles says, flicking on two of the sinks.

Derek closes his eyes and tries to relax, but nothing comes.  He’s dying to go, but he’s too keyed up.  It’s like he can feel Stiles’ eyes on the back of his head, boring through the stall door.

“Can you like… whistle or something?  Or go outside?” Derek begs, getting desperate to relieve himself.  

“I can’t leave,” Stiles says, heaving out a sigh.  “Your mother changed our security protocols since your birthday… but I can go myself, if that would help?”

“Yes, please,” Derek says, counting down the seconds until he hears Stiles pulling down his zipper and humming as he gets a stream going.  Finally, Derek is able to pee himself.  He’s had so much to drink, it lasts forever.  He hears the door open and close and a few other people enter, using the facilities themselves.  Just as he’s about to shake and finish up, a scuffle breaks out.

Derek can hear everything happening but hasn’t managed to dress himself and get out the door yet.  The noises rush in his ears like he’s caught in a wind tunnel; flapping, thumping, and grunting.  He fumbles with the lock, but his hands are shaking and he can’t get it open.  “Stiles?” he cries, ducking down to peek through the slatted door.  

If this were a normal bathroom, Derek would be able to crawl under the stall, but of course, the White House would never allow that for a Correspondents’ dinner.  He can’t see anything except fabric moving.  There are too many of them.

Caught off guard, Stiles doesn’t have time to call for help before his radio is smashed against the floor.  “Derek, run!” he screams, but the words cut off into a groan.  

The door to the stall is kicked in, and Derek is thrown into the wall.  Hands grab him and pull him toward the door but he manages to throw himself to the ground and crawl away.  “Stiles!” he shouts, but gets no answer.  The sound of fabric flapping and dress shoes sliding on the tile are drowned out by the dull thud of fists and feet connecting with flesh.  

When he finally manages to look around the room, the seriousness of the situation dawns on him.  Stiles is locked in hand to hand with three men while the fourth is attempting to bodily drag Derek from under the counter.  He kicks at him and catches the man in the stomach.  Scrambling away, Derek ducks back into a stall and stands on the toilet seat.  

“Derek!” Stiles shouts again between blows.  He catches a fist to the jaw and a dress shoe to the knee but manages to stay standing.  

Crouched on top of the toilet—Derek is ashamed to admit it—he hides his face.  All he can think of is his birthday and that bag over his head, of the scar on Stiles’ stomach and how many close calls a person can take.  He’s terrified, not sure if Stiles is winning or losing.  Derek knows Stiles is a good fighter, but those men were huge and angry and the odds aren’t in his favor.  

“Derek!” Stiles yells, but Derek is still stuck in his head, unable to answer.  He hears a body hit the floor and his stomach clenches.  He steps down onto the floor and peeks around the door of the stall to see one of the assailants on the floor, the other two attempting to take Stiles down while the third comes straight for him.  One man has Stiles in a headlock while the other pummels his stomach as he gasps for breath.

“Fuck, Stiles,” Derek breathes.  Running on instinct, Derek winds up and punches the man in the face, knocking him away from Stiles.  Derek has never landed a punch before and he groans, clutching his hand.  The man is already shaking it off and Stiles is still in a headlock.  The other man pulls Derek’s hands behind his back.

“Derek,” he gasps, hands scratching at the grip around his neck.  “Hit your fucking panic button!”

Feeling completely useless, his arms are burning, practically being pulled out of their sockets and he can’t break free.  Acting before thinking, Derek throws his head back and hits his assailant in the head.  Finally free, Derek pats his pocket until he finds his button and mashes all of the keys, too nervous to see straight.  The man he punched is back up on his feet and Derek dances away from him.  He wants to help, but doesn’t know what to do.  His fist is already throbbing.  

The man goes back to pummeling Stiles in the stomach, and Derek just can’t let that happen.  He kicks out, catching the man in the chest.  When he stumbles, Derek kicks at his knee and takes him down to the floor.  Momentarily blind with rage Derek swings out and breaks the man’s nose.  Before he can bring his arm back again, a shot rings out and the man is dead, a bullet gone straight through his temple.  

Two more shots are fired, then another three and finally the room is quiet apart from Stiles’ labored breathing.  He’s got both hands holding out his weapon, shaking slightly with the exertion.  Pulling a few paper towels from the basket on the counter, Stiles wets them and bends down to wipe the blood spatter from Derek’s face and throat.  

“You alright?” he asks, thumb rubbing a circle on Derek’s cheek.  

Derek nods and sucks in a deep breath.  Immediately he freezes.  Something rich and sweet fills his nose, sharp in the way it bites into him, igniting his synapses.  His whole body starts to tingle and he can feel himself heating up, sweat starting to prickle at his hairline.  “Stiles?”

“We need to get you to your room,” Stiles says quickly, right hand holding his gun out to the door while his left reaches for Derek.  “Now, Derek!” he snaps, yanking Derek to his feet.

Without making a conscious decision to do so, Derek buries his face in Stiles’ neck.  When Stiles pulls him even closer with a hand around his waist, Derek melts into him, drowning himself in the scent he finds there.  It’s warm and all-encompassing, like sinking into a bath.  Derek wants nothing more than to take Stiles back to his room, so he follows willingly.  

Isaac and three other agents burst into the bathroom, far too late.  Stiles speaks to them quickly, ordering one to clear the ballroom and another to lock down the ball and set up a checkpoint at the door to search for accomplices.  Isaac raises his eyebrows at the state of them, but only clears the hall so Stiles can shepherd Derek back to his bedroom.  

“Stiles,” he mutters, not wanting to alarm Derek.  “Your patch.”

“I know,” Stiles says quietly.  “It got pulled off in the fight.  We didn’t have any warning.  He’s going into a forced heat.”

“But that means—”

“—I know what it means, Lahey.”

“I have to brief the President.”

“You do that,” Stiles snaps, pushing at Isaac with his forearm.  He’s still clutching his gun in his right hand, unwilling to abandon his weapon until Derek is secure.  “And call his nurse.  I can’t leave him like this.”

“You can’t stay with him either.  I shouldn’t leave you two alone,” Isaac protests.  

Stiles shoots him a look.  “I’m not going to do anything, Lahey.  I’m a professional.”

“A professional that’s thrown his mate into heat!”

“If you’re back quick, we’ll be fine.  Just go get his nurse, please!” Stiles hisses.  When Derek groans against him he turns his back on Isaac and coos, “We just have to get you inside and then we’ll get you your nurse, don’t worry,” into Derek’s ear.  

The sound sends a shiver down Derek’s spine but also calms him somewhere deep down.  He adores this feeling of contentment and longs to sink even further into it.  Knowing instinctively what he has to do, Derek paws at his shirt collar, getting his fingers on the edge of his patch and peeling it off.

“No!” Stiles groans, smacking at his hands, but it’s already too late.  “Derek!” he whines, pressing his face to the Omega’s throat.  “You can’t just—”

Isaac groans and sprints away from the couple down the hall, knowing all too well that he only has minutes before they’re indecent.

“—Don’t you want to—”

“—We can’t do this,” Stiles groans, pushing the bedroom door open and herding Derek inside.  Leading them to the bed, Stiles tries to pull away but Derek pulls him back down.  “Derek, stop!”

Derek whines.  He can tell by the shift in Stiles’ hips that he’s reconsidering.  One little nip is all it would take to tie them together forever.  If he can just get Stiles to bite him, he’d never leave again, wouldn’t even want to.  “Can’t we just—”

“—No, Derek,” Stiles says sharply, pushing Derek away.  “We can’t.  I can’t do this with you!”

“Why don’t you want me?” Derek says, voice breaking as Stiles steps away from the bed.  

It must be his body.  Stiles must be bent after all.  Well, Derek can work with that, he thinks, pulling his jacket off and unbuttoning his shirt.  He’s already leaking, opening so relaxed you could just slip right inside.  No Alpha could resist him now, even if they were a little crooked.

“Derek, stop it,” Stiles says, backing away toward the door.  “You don’t want this.  It’s just your heat.”

“I know,” Derek says, reaching to unbutton his pants.  “It’s all for you,” he whines, slipping his underwear off with his slacks.  “Can’t you smell how wet I am for you?”  

Stiles grimaces and Derek’s face falls.  Maybe Stiles really _doesn’t_ want him.  Desperate to figure out what he can do to get Stiles to touch him, Derek turns around and presents, chest on the mattress, ass in the air.  It’s exactly what he’s seen Omegas do in pornography, holding themselves open for their Alphas.  If Stiles doesn’t want him like this, there must _really_ be something wrong with Derek.

Groaning, Stiles turns away.  “Oh my God, fuck,” he mutters, words echoing off the closed door.  “Don’t do that, Derek.  Please.”

Derek is inching his fingers closer and closer to his hole, sliding them through the slick that has seeped out onto his thighs and tight little Omega balls.  He’s startled by the sound of the door opening, fingers stopping in their tracks just before they press inside.

“Oh, thank God,” Stiles says, darting through the open door and pushing the Omega nurse inside before closing it behind him.

“Stiles?” Derek calls, hopping off the bed to chase the scent of his mate that is quickly dissipating.  “Where are you going?  Come back!”

“I’m sorry,” he hears Stiles say from just outside the door.  “I can’t.  You’re going to be okay without me.”  His voice is pained, but Derek doesn’t care.  He can’t possibly be feeling as badly as Derek is right now.  “Let Nurse Miller help you and I’ll see you after, okay?”

“Stiles, please!” Derek cries, tears falling freely from his eyes as he shivers all over, naked and abandoned.  “You can stay.  I’ll be so good for you.”

“It’s going to be okay,” Stiles says again.  

Derek doesn’t know who he is trying to convince with his words, but they ring hollow in his ears.  “Wait!” Derek screams, but there’s no answer.  

His Alpha is leaving him.  

He’s never coming back.

Stiles will go back to Somalia or Iran and die there in the desert and Derek will be left all alone.  

He falls to the floor, carpet burning his knees as he breaks down into sobs.  Clear as day, Derek can visualize it.  Stiles is caught without his body armor on, under heavy fire.  A dozen bullets riddle his body and his blood seeps out into a crimson puddle in the sand, hot enough to form glass.

Nurse Miller holds him, whispering soothing words in his ear as he slips a needle into his thigh.  Derek barely feels it.  His heat is ratcheting up, burning him up from the inside out and there’s nothing left to do about it.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Hale?” the nurse asks, voice cool and clinical.  “What do you need right now?  I have toys and Alpha pheromones.  I just gave you a late-stage suppressant that may help ease the severity of a forced heat.  I could run you a cold shower or set you up with some IV fluids.  I could even give you a sedative if you’d like to try to sleep through some of this.  Forced heats can be brutal on an Omega, especially an unbonded one, and we don’t want you to suffer unnecessarily.”

“Who’s we?  My mother?” Derek chuckles darkly.  “If she didn’t want me to suffer she would never have brought him here.  Fuck her, fuck all of you.”

“I’m only trying to help, Mr. Hale,” Nurse Miller says, voice detached.  “What is it that you want?”

“Call Chris,” he says finally, shivering in a heap on the floor.  “He was at the ball.  Just get him for me.  Chris Argent.”

“I’ll let Agent Lahey know,” he says before stepping away.  

Derek tries to stand, but his legs feel like jello.  He can’t even manage to move out of the puddle of slick he’s sitting in.  All he can think of is the smell seeping into the carpet, a horrible reminder of the day his Alpha left him alone.  It’s just like blood sinking into sand, deep enough you can never dig it out.  He wonders how long it will take to fade from existence.  

He wonders how long it will take him to get over Stiles Stilinski.

* * *

Brutal doesn’t even begin to cover it.  Derek’s heat is debilitating.  It goes on for nine days and Derek remembers every aching second of it.  Even when he’s delirious, shouting for Stiles, begging for his Alpha to bite him and take the pain away, he remembers every cramp, every drip of sweat, every spasm of gut-wrenching desire.  

In an act of friendship Derek can never begin to repay, Chris stays with him the entire time.  Nurse Miller is relieved after 18 hours, as protocol dictates, but after that there are no less than three medical professionals in his room at all times, dousing him with ice water, plying him with meds.  Nothing begins to scratch the surface.  

Chris offers to help, but Derek can’t bear the touch of anyone, especially not in his most intimate places.  By day six, the doctors are begging him to let them dose his cervix, but Derek can’t even tolerate the speculum.  He suffers through, day in and day out, chafed and dripping, dehydrated and raw.  

His mother tries to visit on day eight, but Derek doesn’t let her through the door.  He’s furious with her, even though he knows it’s irrational.  She didn’t know Derek was going to fall in love with his protection.  There was no way she could have predicted that Agent Stilinski would turn out to be Derek’s mate.  Or was there?  Even if it doesn’t make any sense, Derek can’t shake the anger.  He needs someone to blame for his anguish and when blaming Stiles didn’t make him feel any better, he starts with his mother.

The only thing that gives him a modicum of relief is listening to Chris tell him stories.  Completely ignoring the way Derek is naked and writhing in bed, rocking on a toy or jerking his overwrought dick, Chris speaks to him.  His voice is gruff and raw by the end of the first day, but he never wavers.  

Over the span of a week, Derek grows to know Chris better than anyone.  He hears of the man’s first love, an Alpha named Ian that had fathered his daughter Allison, of their struggle to make it work even though they were not true mates and had to hide from the rest of the world, and of the joy he felt when Allison was born.  

Derek can’t help but cry when Chris describes what it was like to carry his daughter, how full and valuable it made him feel, how satisfied, and powerful.  He cries when Chris explains how his father had threatened Allison until Chris agreed to let her go, to leave her with Ian and survive on limited contact.  

“You’re going to be okay,” Chris says, soft and gentle against Derek’s ear.  “If I can survive that, you can survive this.  Omegas are strong.  We are capable of anything.  Alphas don’t know the half of it.  They’ve never felt this kind of pain.”

“Stiles has,” Derek says, whimpering through a lull in his overwhelming lust.  “I know he has.”

“It’s not the same, Derek,” Chris says, shaking his head.  “Navy SEALs have nothing on us.”

Derek gives him a weak smile and turns his head, praying for sleep.

Finally on day nine, his fever breaks.  Chris kisses him on the cheek and leaves after a hug that lasts a solid five minutes.  Derek sleeps for three more days before dragging himself out of bed for a much-needed shower and scrub.  He feels weak and wobbly, like a newborn giraffe, as he stumbles back to bed to watch Band of Brothers for the hundredth time.  Isaac sits with him, never saying a word.  They eat junk food and drink Gatorade until Derek feels human again.  

A few days later, Derek is sitting at his desk writing a new section of his thesis.  Chris gave him a lot to think about and he has spent the last twelve hours reading about the mental state of Omegas who leave their young children, exploring the idea that only childless Omegas should be invited to serve in the military.  He doesn’t like the idea, but if it makes him uncomfortable, he knows it’s worth exploring.

There’s a knock at the door and Derek assumes it is Isaac coming to tell him to take a break.  “Come in,” he calls and then turns back to his laptop to finish the paragraph he had been writing before he loses his train of thought.  “Did you bring me a sandwich?” he asks as he spins around in his chair, only to find that it’s Stiles, not Isaac in his doorway.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, voice as cold as he can manage with his heart caught in his throat.  “I thought you’d have shipped out already.”

”The threat still stands,” Stiles says, clearing his throat when his voice catches.  “Until it’s passed, I’m not leaving the country.  I’m not leaving you.”  He enters the room and closes the door behind him.  

The space feels smaller now that the door is closed.  Derek doesn’t like how trapped he feels, how he can’t stop staring at the spot by Stiles’ feet where his scent has been steam cleaned from the carpet.  “You think we can be professional after what happened?” Derek asks, eyes narrow.  “I threw myself at you, and now you just want to pretend like nothing has happened?”

“I pretended so I wouldn’t be sent away.  Isaac covered for us with your mother.  She thinks the Traditionalists dosed you with something.”

“And why would you do that?”

“I can’t leave you,” Stiles says, eyes falling closed as he struggles to find the words.  “I was dying not seeing you,” Stiles says softly, pressing himself against the flat of the door.  He looks nervous, which Derek is unaccustomed to.  His suit is still too big on him, but for the first time in a long time, Stiles looks small.  

“You could have seen me any time in the last week, why now?” Derek asks, crossing his arms over his chest.  

“I had to wait until a doctor cleared you for Alpha interaction.  Your mother’s orders.”

“You said you couldn’t be with me.”

Stiles ducks his face, ashamed.  “I’m sorry.  I know what it must have looked like, but you have to know I wanted to stay.”

“So _why didn’t you_?” Derek hisses, anger rising in his chest.  “I fucking begged you, Stiles.  Do you know how that made me feel?  I threw myself at you like a goddamn whore!  I’m such an idiot.”

“You’re not an idiot,” Stiles says softly, but with conviction.  “It broke my heart, but I had to leave.  You were in a forced heat.  Anything you and I did together would have been tainted.  I didn’t want our first time together to be like that.”

“Why couldn’t you just say that?” Derek asks.  “You made me think you didn’t want me.  Do you know how badly that hurt?”

“I know exactly how bad it hurt.  I hurt myself, too,” Stiles says, taking a step forward.

“No,” Derek says firmly, standing up to walk to the other side of the room, putting the bed between them.  “You do not get to say that.  You don’t get to make light of it.  You have no fucking idea what it felt like to hear you say those things.  Only Chris knows how bad it really was.”

“So you’re in love with him, then?” Stiles asks.

Derek can’t stop staring at the way the Alpha licks his lips after every sentence.  It’s like he’s a snake, tasting the remnants of Derek’s heat on his tongue every time he opens his mouth.  

“No, I’m not fucking in love with Chris.  Are we going to be fighting about this forever?  We’re just friends.”

“So you love me?” Stiles asks.  

Derek swears his heart stops beating for a minute.  His eyes are wide and Stiles stares at him, face hopeful.  “Don’t you dare make me say it first, you complete asshole.”

“I’m sorry,” Stiles says, walking around the edge of the bed to stand in front of Derek.  “I’m sorry I hurt you, and I’m sorry I left you, and I’m sorry you thought I didn’t want you.  I was trying to protect you, and to protect what we have… well, what I hope we’ll have.  If I had bitten you, mated you during a forced heat, our whole relationship would be compromised, up for public scrutiny.  I needed it to be _your_ choice.”

Derek stares.  “That’s not what you were supposed to say.”

Stiles laughs but does so as he drops to his knees.  

Derek’s eyes go even wider.  It looks like a proposal, but Stiles doesn’t seem to be going for a ring.  He has no idea what’s happening, but it’s something big.

“I love you,” Stiles says simply, reaching for his hands.  “I’ve loved you since I saw you in the God-awful pink shirt and you laughed when I broke Deucalion’s nose.”

“That long, huh?” Derek says, pulling his hands out of Stiles’ reach to cross them over his chest.  “What else?”

“You’re beautiful and smart, and so strong.  I love the way your eyebrows scrunch up when you’re typing on your laptop and the way you dance the jive with your mother, and I love the way you stood up with Chris for Omega rights.  I love that you don’t take bigotry from anyone and that you can’t land a punch for shit.  I love the way your fingers feel on my arm and the way you smell when you get off the treadmill.  I love you.”

Derek shrugs his shoulders and purses his lips.  “Better,” he says, fighting back a smile.

“You little shit,” Stiles says, standing up and pulling Derek in by the hips.  “I’m going to kiss you now.”

“You better,” Derek says, leaning in to accept his mate.  

They kiss for a few seconds, closed mouth and dry before Stiles pulls away and heads for the door.  “Okay, I’ll be right back.”

“Where do you think you’re going?” Derek asks, groaning at the loss of Stiles’ heat against his body.  

“To resign,” Stiles says simply, opening the bedroom door.  “Unless you _don’t_ want to be my mate and have my babies.”

“Get out!” Derek calls, throwing a pillow at Stiles just before the door swings closed behind him.

He paces the room, but can’t keep the smile off his face.  He has a mate, and he’s on his way back to his bedroom to make love to him.  There’s nothing stopping them, no forced heat, no terrorists hiding in his bedroom, nothing but the two of them.  

He presses down the edges of his new hormone patch.  Stiles can take it off when he gets back, if he wants.  If they take the time to ease into it, he won’t need to go through another full heat.  They can take their time with each other, like they were always meant to.  He’s not going to let anything derail them now.

“Your mother is scary as fuck,” Stiles says when he reenters the room.  

Derek throws himself at him immediately, sliding his suit jacket off his shoulders and tugging at his tie.  “I’m aware,” he adds between kisses, already walking backward on the carpet to slip off his socks.  

“You know she offered to pull my team out of the field if I wanted?  I think she secretly likes me,” Stiles says, sliding his hands up Derek’s stomach to pull the tee shirt over his head.

“Wait,” Derek says, pulling back with his shirt still caught around his neck.  “Are you still thinking about going back?  Now?”

“I was going to talk to you about it,” Stiles says, voice patient and even.  “I know you don’t want me to go, but there’s only eight months left on my contract and my team is out there alone.  I can convince them not to re-up.  We could all go home after that.”

“Wouldn’t that be hard on you?” Derek asks, hand coming up to grip Stiles’ shoulder over his frog tattoo.  “I was just doing some research about Alphas who leave their mates at home while they serve, and they have increased chances of being injured.  They’re distracted and—”

“Loving you… it could never be a hardship,” Stiles says, cupping Derek’s face.  “Missing you, maybe.”

“You’re such a sweet talker,” Derek says, watching with great interest as Stiles licks his lips invitingly.

“Now,” Stiles says, cool fingertips running along the edge of Derek’s patch.  “What do we want to do about this?  You shouldn’t go into heat if we do it right, but there’s always a chance.  I don’t know if your body could take another heat again so soon.  That could be dangerous.”

“I don’t think it will happen.  We’ll go slow.  Please?” Derek whines the minute Stiles touches his scent gland.  “I can feel the last heat still lingering around.  That hollow feeling.  I’d like you to fill me up.”

“And if you get pregnant?” Stiles asks.  “I’ll be gone for eight months.  I could miss out on all of it.”

Derek thinks about it for half a second before reaching up and pulling the patch off himself.  “I don’t want to spend another minute not mated to you,” he says, hoping Stiles won’t be upset.  If the Alpha walks away again now, Derek doesn’t think he’ll be able to take it.  “There’s always Skype.”

Stiles just smiles, pulling his own patch off and burying his nose in Derek’s neck.  They stay like that for several minutes until their scents are strong and beginning to blend together, Derek’s glasses pressed into the side of Stiles’ throat.  Stiles raises his hand then and massages Derek’s throat, activating every last bit of pheromone that lingers under the skin.  

It’s like a build of pressure, Derek can almost feel it coiling in his throat, like a miniature orgasm just waiting to spill over.  He lets out a little sigh, his head falling to Stiles’ shoulder where he starts sucking on his deltoid, bringing out that sweet scent that he’d only gotten a few minutes of before.  The power of it is almost overwhelming.  The deeper he breathes in, the more he inhales the staggering weight of their combined scent.  

It’s them.  Stiles and Derek.  Derek and Stiles.  The scent of their bond, of what could one day be a growing family.  Derek is overcome.  His breath comes in shuddering gasps, mouth still locked around Stiles’ throat, massaging it with his tongue.  

Stiles squirms under his mouth, pressing his erection to Derek’s thigh.  “Are you ready?” Stiles asks him, nosing up and down his throat.  

“Are you?” Derek asks back.

Stiles nods quickly.  Then, in a moment of genius, Stiles pulls away to lock the bedroom door, returning to continue undressing Derek.  First his shirt, which catches on his glasses and makes them giggle as they struggle to pull it off, and then his sweatpants, which fall to the floor with ease.

“On the bed,” Derek says, divesting Stiles of the rest of his clothing before laying down.  

“I love you,” Stiles says, looking deep into Derek’s eyes, holding his gaze until he returns the words.  His lips curve up into a smile and he lowers his head, upturned nose grazing over Derek’s pulse point before he breathes directly over his scent gland.  

“Please,” Derek says, biting his lip as he struggles to stay still.  “I love you.  Please.”

Stiles lets out a slow exhale and then licks over his throat, laving it in steady, powerful strokes of his tongue.  

Derek squirms, heat pooling in his stomach as Stiles takes him to new heights.  He can feel a rush of fluid escape his hole, incapable of staying tight any longer.  Derek’s entire body is primed and ready for his Alpha.  He pants, moaning and clenching his fists as Stiles continues to massage his throat.  

“Now Alpha, please,” he says, never making a conscious decision to use the title.  It feels right in his mouth though, and Stiles seems to agree.

A loud groan escapes Stiles’ throat as he opens his mouth, gently pressing his teeth around the curve of Derek’s shoulder where his deltoid stands out.  The world narrows down to two square inches as Stiles slowly sinks his teeth in.  

Derek’s eyelids flutter closed as the pain burns into pleasure.  He presses the back of Stiles’ head down to deepen the sensation.  Stiles moans against his throat, making the whole area vibrate.  It causes sparks to go off in Derek’s mind, bright flashes of light behind his closed eyes.  He sighs, feeling contentment buzz all over his body.  

“God, Stiles,” Derek groans, breath catching in his chest.  “Your turn,” he says as soon as Stiles’ teeth release, but Stiles hums his disagreement, lapping at Derek’s new bite.  “Please, Alpha… need to.”

Stiles relents, and Derek is able to flip them, hovering over his Alpha’s frame.  He pushes his glasses back up his nose and runs his lips and tongue over both of Stiles’ collarbones before pausing over the right side of his throat.  The other side is covered by the spindly bones of his frog skeleton and Derek wonders aloud, “Are you going to get a tattoo for me?”

“I wouldn’t really need one if you would just bite me already,” Stiles says, grinning.  “Everyone will be able to see it anyway.”

“It’s not the same,” Derek says, running a finger along the line of the trident on his chest.  “If I’m going to carry your children, I’m going to require a tattoo.”

“You can pick it out then,” Stiles offers, turning his head to the side and arching his neck.  “After we’re done making love for the next three days.”

“Three days, huh?” Derek asks skeptically.  “My last heat lasted nine.”

“You’re not in a true heat.  You know how I know?  Because you’re not face down on the bed right now.  And anyway, I’m here for the duration,” Stiles says easily, teasing his waist with his fingertips.  “Forever.”

“I like the sound of that,” Derek says, running his nose along the line of Stiles’ exposed throat.  “But I’m going to need a ring.”

“I’ll get you a ring, I swear,”  he groans when Derek’s nose bumps against his scent gland.  “For fuck’s sake, you’re killing me.”

Derek just laughs into his throat.

“Maybe I should have forced you into heat again,” Stiles says, words catching in his chest each time Derek licks him.  “You were much less mouthy like that.  Less backtalk.”

“You love it,” Derek purrs before clamping his lips down on Stiles’ throat and sucking a hickey there.  He keeps it going for several minutes until the area is dark purple with broken capillaries and Stiles is squirming beneath him.  Suddenly overwhelmed with heat, Derek lifts himself up to straddle Stiles’ hips and sinks down onto his erection.  

“Holy fuck, Derek!” Stiles shouts, hands clasping down hard on Derek’s hips.  “I was going to go down on you for like an hour.”

“I definitely wasn’t going to put up with that,” Derek says, settling into the feeling of Stiles deep inside him.  The stretch is perfect, settling an itch that he’s been carrying around for the last two weeks.  In fact, Derek’s pretty sure he’s been feeling his particular itch since he met Stiles three months ago.  “Maybe next time.”

“You’re going to be a handful in bed, aren’t you?” Stiles says, eyes wide as he fights to keep his hips still, to let Derek set the pace.

“You have no idea,” Derek says, rolling his hips until the head of Stiles’ dick is right where he wants it.  “I’ve been waiting for this for my entire life.  I’m going to enjoy the fuck out of it.”

“Take pity on me,” Stiles says, eyes twinkling with amusement.  “I’m a 32-year-old virgin.”

“Worth waiting for?” Derek asks, lifting up on his knees only to drop down hard.  He tilts his head back, forcing his glasses to settle back into place where they have slipped down his nose.  He’d take them off, but he really wants to see every inch of his Alpha in sharp focus.

“Absolutely,” Stiles says, smile wide as he sets his feet on the mattress and bucks up into his mate.  “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Derek says, and without warning leans down to bite Stiles’ throat.

Stiles shouts, either with pain or pleasure, and his dick grows even harder, the base widening as his knot starts to form.  “Oh my God,” Stiles stutters, long fingers tangling in Derek’s hair as the pressure builds in his stomach.  “You’re gonna make me come.”

Derek just moans around his neck, grinding his hips down into Stiles’ lap.  He bounces once, twice, three times before Stiles’ knot locks into him.  Heat spurts into Derek, like nothing he’s ever felt before.  His toys pale in comparison to the sensation of his mate’s seed pulsing into his core, quenching a thirst he’s carried all his life.  

His body tenses and releases, wet heat filling the space between their chests.  The scent of his come on Stiles’ skin caught in his nose only spurs him on, pulse after pulse until he can feel it crest one last time.  The pleasure is the most intense thing he’s ever felt, taking over every one of his senses, whiting out his vision.  

It just keeps going, on and on until Derek thinks he could be caught up in this moment forever, suspended between the taste of Stiles in his mouth and the heat of him buried deep inside.  Eventually though, Derek’s jaw begins to ache and he releases his teeth, lapping away the hurt.  His glasses are sliding down his sweaty nose, but he doesn’t care.  All that matters is the taste of his Alpha under his tongue.

Stiles moans in his ear, nails biting into his hips as he rocks up, up, up, into Derek, prolonging the sensation.  “Fuck, babe,” he moans, capturing Derek’s mouth.  It feels like it’s been forever since they kissed even if it’s only been a few minutes.  Stiles devours him like he’s been dying for it, attacking his mouth with tongue and teeth until his lips are swollen and tingling.

Miraculously, Derek can still feel Stiles pulsing into him.  He imagines this is all it takes, his Alpha’s seed taking root inside him, creating a life.  Derek can’t believe what he’s feeling right now is anything short of a miracle taking place.  He pulls his mouth away from Stiles’ just to breathe.  Foreheads touching, he looks down at his mate and smiles, eyes falling closed in complete bliss.

Stiles breaks into laughter, turning his head to buss kisses against Derek’s cheeks.  His stomach tenses with it, making him groan into Derek’s ear as his hips stutter, still not finished.

“Wow,” Derek says, kissing Stiles’ smile.  “This must be some kind of record.”

“I don’t think I can stop,” Stiles whimpers.  

Derek has started circling his hips, testing the limits of his own body.  He’s surprised to find that even with Stiles’ huge knot locked inside him, he still has a good range of motion.  Taking advantage of this, he lifts and grinds, awarded with a low moan every time he squeezes down around his Alpha’s dick.

“Fuck,” Stiles says, breath hot on Derek’s ear.  “Don’t stop.”

“I’m not stopping,” Derek says, planting his hands on Stiles’ chest to get better leverage.  “You look like you’re having more fun than me, though, and that just doesn’t seem fair.”

“Oh,” Stiles says, biting down on his lip when Derek rocks down hard.  “I see how it is.  You’re feeling left out?”

“Mmhmm,” Derek hums, digging his nails into Stiles’ pecs as he rolls his hips, chasing his own pleasure.  He’s full to the brim, but Stiles just keeps giving him more, so much that he’s surprised it’s not leaking out of him with every thrust.  There’s less friction now though, and he’s having trouble finding the right angle to get off.

“Let me help you with that,” Stiles says, smirking as he grips Derek’s hips hard and flips them over.  

Derek hits the pillows with a flop, laughing freely when he sees his own come drying in a sticky mess on Stiles’ chest and stomach.  “You’re a mess,” he says, words coming out in a groan as Stiles leans over him and lifts his legs up onto his shoulders.  He likes the look of it, and the smell, of his Alpha covered in his scent, marked as his.

“Not so funny now, is it?” Stiles says, grunting as he jerks his hips, pushing up on Derek’s calves until he’s almost bent in half.  

Derek moans in response, grabbing the backs of his own knees and stretching himself even further.

Stiles follows his lead and surges forward, getting his hands around the top of Derek’s thighs and jerking quickly into him over and over once he’s sure he’s found the right spot.  “How are you even bent like that?” he gasps out between thrusts.  

Derek is letting out little huffs of breath every time Stiles hits his prostate, the whine growing in his throat.  He’s also too distracted by the way Stiles’ forearms and biceps flex with the exertion to answer for a minute.  “Yoga,” he says eventually.  “I do it before bed so Isaac doesn’t make fun of me.”

“You’ll have to show me,” Stiles says, reaching down to get a hand on Derek’s dick.  

Derek licks his lips, panting at the sight of how Stiles’ hand dwarfs him, wrapped around him tight.  “Fuck,” he moans when Stiles doesn’t do anything further.  “You have to move your hand, please.”

“Is this what you want?” Stiles asks, giving him one long, slow stroke.  

“You’re seriously going to make me beg for it?” Derek groans.  “I hate you a little bit right now.”

“You love me,” Stiles says, grinning as he grinds his hips in tight.  

“If you love me, you’ll make me come,” Derek says, squeezing down tight on Stiles’ dick.  

“So bossy,” Stiles teases, a few last spurts of come escaping him with the added pressure.  Breathing deep, he focuses all of his attention on bringing Derek off.  Tightening his grip on Derek, he gets a high pitched whine in response.  

“You did work for me until ten minutes ago,” Derek reminds him, laughing until Stiles twists his wrist just right and he comes for the second time.  It covers Stiles’ hand and pools in Derek’s belly button.  He’s only a little surprised when Stiles leans down and licks it off of his stomach.  Alphas don’t usually bother with Omega come.  Derek nearly gets hard again just from the sight of it.

Stiles moans against his chest, trailing his tongue up, following it with his hand until he can wipe come onto Derek’s bottom lip.  He kisses it off, rolling the taste around on his tongue and pushing it into Derek’s mouth.

They suck the breath from each other’s lungs, making out like a couple of teenagers for the first time in their relationship, Derek’s glasses askew, plastic rims digging into Stiles’ cheek.  Stiles’ knot could last up to an hour, so they have plenty of time to explore each other’s bodies with hands and mouths.  

“What’s this?” Derek asks when he finds a knot of raised skin under Stiles’ left arm.  

“Knife wound,” Stiles says easily, shrugging.  

“What about this one?” Derek asks, running a finger over the dark line on Stiles’ abdomen.

“Armor piercing bullet,” Stiles says, pulling Derek’s hand away and twining their fingers together instead.  “Grade four liver lac.  It took three months to grow back.  My dad even got to see me in the hospital in Germany.”

Derek hums in his throat, squeezing Stiles’ fingers.  If Stiles doesn’t want him to touch it, he won’t, but that doesn’t mean he’s not affected.  He wants to wrap Stiles in a blanket and never let him go back to his team.  He wants assurances that his mate will never come to harm again.  But he can’t have that.  Instead, he’s going to have eight long months of worry and loss waiting for him to come home safely.  He traces the scar on Stiles’ forehead with his free hand.  Even away from the war, Stiles still got hurt protecting him.

“You haven’t even seen this one yet,” Stiles says, running his hand through his hair and flipping some of it up to show off a long thin scar.  “Roof caved in.  28 stitches.”

“You have to promise me you’re not going to die,” Derek says.  He knows it’s not fair.  And even if they’re not true, he needs to hear the words.

“I’m not going to die,” Stiles replies immediately, smiling down softly at his mate.  “I’m very good at my job.”

“I know you are,” Derek says, kissing Stiles’ knuckles.  

“And how can you be so sure, Mr. Hale?” Stiles asks playfully, cupping Derek’s cheek with his free hand.

“Because it was your job to protect me and I’m still alive,” Derek replies.

* * *

Derek’s laptop chimes and he flings himself into his desk chair to answer the Skype call.

“Baby?  Can you hear me?” Stiles practically screams at the webcam.  The video is lagging, but Derek can still make out his face, tanned and with a full beard.

“I’m right here.  Can you see me?” he asks, leaning away from the desk so he’s in frame.

“Oh my God, look at you!” Stiles crows, grinning from ear to ear.  “I can’t wait to get home and put my hands all over that belly.”

“They’re kicking like crazy,” Derek says, laying his hands across his pregnant stomach.  His engagement ring catches in the light of his desk lamp, glinting in the small square of his own video.  

“I can’t believe you didn’t find out the sex,” Stiles says, nose practically pressed to the screen, dying for a closer look.

“We can find out together.  It’s only three more weeks,” Derek argues, putting a fake pout on his face.  He adjusts his glasses, getting a sultry smile from his mate.  Apparently, the nerdy Omega look is a turn on.

“I love you so much,” Stiles says.  He always makes sure to say it before the end of their calls in case he loses signal.

“We love you, too,” Derek says, smiling into the camera.

“Now give me some tummy time,” Stiles says, sitting back on his cot and getting comfortable.

“Are you alone?” Derek asks, fingers teasingly running over the hem of his shirt.  “You know what happened last time.  We are never having Skype sex again.”

“We won’t have to,” Stiles says, grinning at the camera.  “Show me your tummy and I’ll tell you a secret.”

Derek groans like it’s a huge effort to tug up his shirt and let Stiles see his pregnant stomach.

“Oh my God, Derek!” Stiles yells, yanking the laptop back to his face.  “Your belly button popped.  Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It only happened yesterday,” Derek says, a shy smile on his face.  “I woke up yesterday morning and there it was, an outie.  Feels a little weird,” he adds, pressing down on it.  “Almost like they kicked it right out of me.  I can’t wait for you to feel it,” he says, running a loving hand across his stomach.  He gets a kick in response.

“Was that it?” Stiles asks, eyes locked on Derek’s navel.

“Can you see it from there?”

“Those little ripples?  Yeah, I saw it!” Stiles crows, bursting with pride.  “Hey baby!” he says, waving at the camera.  “I’m your Papa!  I can’t wait to meet you!  Just three more days and I’m on a flight back home!”

“Three days?” Derek screams.

Isaac bursts into the room, eyes darting around the room.

“What have I told you about knocking, Lahey,” Stiles says sharply from the computer.  Derek pulls his shirt back down over his stomach.

“I heard screaming,” Isaac protests.

“What did we learn last time?” Stiles asks, arms crossed over his chest.  

“Not to come in without knocking during Skype if I don’t want to have nightmares,” Isaac recites, rolling his eyes.

“He’s coming home this week!” Derek practically squeals, excitement infectious.

“That’s great,” Isaac says, waving at the computer.  “I’ll give you guys some privacy if you want to celebrate.”

“Derek said no more Skype sex.  Not since the guys walked in on him doing that striptease,” Stiles says, wagging his eyebrows lasciviously.

“I’m not even going to ask,” Isaac says, leaving the room quickly.  

“I love you so much, baby,” Stiles says before turning to the door where someone is calling for him.  “I’ve got to go now, but I’ll be there before you know it.”

“I love you, too, Stiles,” Derek says, hand coming out to touch the computer screen where Stiles’ cheek is.  

“Say it like you mean it,” Stiles says, eyes softening.

“I love you, Alpha.  We’ll be waiting,” Derek says, blowing the camera a kiss.

Stiles grabs it and presses it to his chest before waving goodbye.  

Derek can just make out the glint of his own engagement ring.  He sighs, but his heart is light.  The Skype call disconnects with a depressing sound, one that has come to haunt Derek’s dreams.  

Three more days.  Derek has waited seven months and two days, he can handle three more.  

“Papa’s coming home,” he says softly, rubbing his stomach.  “He’s going to love you so much.  We’re going to be a family.”

He hums a lullaby and gets himself ready for bed, looking around his bedroom with a sense of nostalgia.  Three more days and Stiles will be back, right here, in this bed where they first mated.  In the morning, he’ll tell his mother that if she wants to have a White House wedding, she’ll have two weeks left in her presidency to make it happen.  

He smiles to himself.  “Just wait till I tell your grandma that your Papa is coming home early,” he says, setting his glasses on the bedside table next to a framed photo of him and Stiles.  “If she didn’t want this to happen, she never should have hired him,” he says softly, clicking off the lamp and rubbing circles on his stomach until he falls asleep.


End file.
